


Other Waters

by Mad_Maudlin



Series: other waters [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Grief, M/M, Mental Illness, PTSD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the end of the war, Harry's life isn't quite what he expected it to be. A face from the past, however, changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hprwfqf/profile)[**hprwfqf**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hprwfqf/), postwar challenge #13: _One of the boys is thought to have died in the war and the other can't cope. Months later, it comes to light that he didn't die, but was captured and is still being held despite Voldemort's demise._ Very special thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/linnet_melody/profile)[**linnet_melody**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/linnet_melody/), who is a STUD, for beta-reading this fiasco.

_You cannot step in the same river twice, for there are other waters ever flowing in.  
-Heraclitus  
_  
"Sorry I'm late," Harry said, dropping into a chair and tucking his bag under the table. The restaurant was all-Muggle, he was certain, but he still felt a niggling unease in such a public, exposed position, like an itching on the back of his neck. He told himself it was just a natural paranoia trained into all the Aurors, thought about that for a minute, then scolded himself; he was too young to be turning into Moody already.

Across the table, Hermione gave him a bit of a smile over the rim of her glass of water. "Honestly, Harry, you look like you just rolled out of bed," she said warmly.

Harry coughed.

_"Did_ you just roll out of bed?"

"Kingsley has me on this mad schedule," Harry grumbled, burying his face in the menu. "All this week I'm on surveillance work until two o'clock in the morning, but I still had to be at a departmental meeting yesterday at eight am."

"Well, you're the most junior Auror they have," Hermione said. "I'm not surprised they're giving you the worst assignments, if only just because they can."

"Or because Kingsley is a sadist," Harry muttered, though without a great deal of feeling.

"Oh, stop it," she said. "It's not like he's Mad-Eye, telling everyone that being dismembered builds character."

"Give him time," Harry said darkly. "He probably just hasn't suffered enough blows to the head yet."

Hermione shook her head. "You spend far too much time complaining about Kingsley, you know. You could've done worse for a supervisor."

"I know, I know," he said. Harry knew he could've done a _lot_ worse; Kingsley and Tonks were among the few people at the Ministryhell, in all the wizarding worldwho had treated him like a normal person after he took Voldemort down. A few of the other Aurors had been awed by him, but most had been resentfully hostile at first, and Rufus Scrimgeour had still been looming over his shoulder in search of a mascot. As the Auror overseeing his training, Kingsley had not only protected Harry from the Minister's plotting, he'd treated Harry like any other recruitno better and certainly no worse. Harry was usually grateful for that, when he was better-rested.

The waiter came round and took their meal orders, and when he had gone Hermione said, "So, tell me something that doesn't have to do with work."

Harry's mind drew a blank. "Er...nothing much has been going on lately, to tell the truth," he said. "What about you, what's new?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," Hermione said airily. "The office has been quiet lately, nothing more serious than a few young goblins harassing a shopkeeperhe's pressing to have them fined, of course, but I spoke with their clan patriarch and he seems to have the situation well in hand. Crookshanks has been harassing all the village cats, and I'm terrified he's gone and impregnated Mrs. Toppington's mouser, because of course she'll complain until Christmas about it and then threaten to drown all the kittens if I don't take care of them, when really it's just as much her fault as mine if that nasty old mogget of hers isn't spayed. I've told her that Crookshanks is just too old to get snipped, but to listen to her I'm supposed to keep him locked up inside the house all day, and he so enjoys chasing the garden gnomes, it's the only exercise he gets these days. Oh, and Neville's Perambulating Cypress sapling arrived from America, he's quite pleased with it. I don't believe there's any practical point in having it, of course, because the only potions I've been able to find that require it are rather horrible, in fact they should probably be classified as Dark magic, but Neville seems to enjoy itthe tree, I meanand I suppose it will be a bit of a novelty in the greenhouse once it stops running into the walls and things...."

She paused for a sip of water, and Harry pounced on the break in the conversation. "You're leaving something out," he said quickly. "The most important thing, aren't you?"

"Am I?" she asked with far too much surprise to be natural.

Harry bent down to fish the package and card out of his bag and pushed them across the table. "Happy birthday."

"Oh, you shouldn't have," she said, with a bit of a blush that meant she was pleased she hadn't had to remind him. "Thank you so much!"

"You and Neville doing anything special, then?" Harry asked, while she thoroughly perused the card.

She shrugged. "He told me not to stay late at work but he won't tell me why. I told him not to do anything fancy..."

"And he will ignore you," Harry said, "and you'll pretend to be cross about it but really secretly you'll be terribly pleased with whatever he comes up with."

"Am I that predictable?"

"Well, if the last two years running have been any indication..."

She snorted and turned her attention to the box. She showed far more care in removing the wrapping paper than Harry had taken in putting it on, and her eyebrows shot up when she finally opened the slim box. "A pen?"

"'Sgot a permanent inking charm on it," he said, hoping that rise in her voice was the oh-goody kind and not the what-the-hell kind. "And the bloke in the shop says it's leak-proof."

"I've got plenty of quills, Harry," she said.

He shrugged. "I didn't know what else to get you."

Hermione looked for a moment at the penwhich was a good pen, in Harry's opinion, considering that most wizards were still deeply suspicious of any writing implements that didn't come off a birdand then smiled gamely, the sort of smile he had learned meant she had chosen politeness over honesty. She patted his hand. "Well, thank you. It's very practical."

Harry sighed. He knew he should've just gotten her a book.

"Oh, before I forget" Hermione quickly brushed the wrapping paper aside and slipped the pen and card into her purse. "Mrs. Weasley wanted me to remind you that she's making a special dinner tomorrow night, for Percy and Penelope."

"I remember," Harry said. She'd owled him about it a week ago and he hadn't been able to bring himself to throw the parchment away yet. "Took them how long to make it official?"

"Well, they're both so busyperhaps they just now got around to putting it into both their schedules."

Harry snorted as their food arrived. "Yeah, I can see that conversation'So when would you like to get married?' 'Hmm, looks like I've got a free weekend in March' 'Oh, no, I'm scheduled to kiss Scrimgeour's arse all that month, how does your April look?'"

Hermione giggled even as she said, "Oh, Harry, don't, that's wicked."

"You started it."

"Well, I think we should be happy for them," she said, and her mood seemed to shift a bit. "I think it's wonderful that they're promising to share their lives with one another."

"They already do, though," Harry said. "I mean, they've lived together for yearsand don't tell me you really believe the whole 'separate bedrooms' bit, even coming from Percy."

"Oh, you know what I mean," Hermione said, but nevertheless went on to say, "They're making a commitment nowformalizing it. It's really a large change in the relationship, don't you think?"

"Not really," Harry said, wondering what track she was taking this down.

She sighed. "It's justisn't a statement, isn't it? 'I want to share my life with you.' That it's not just that they enjoy being around each other, they want to be _together,_ and they're willing to make the effort...you don't understand it at all, do you?"

"No," Harry said, "and I'm wondering when you turned into the world's most hopeless romantic."

Hermione frowned at him, but played with her salad a bit. "I am not turning into a romantic," she said. "I've just...been thinking a bit lately."

"How's that unusual?"

She suddenly put down her fork and leaned in very close. "Harry," she said, "I'm considering asking Neville to marry me."

Harry blinked with his sandwich halfway to his mouth; it took a moment before he remembered to put it down. "YouerI thought he was supposed to do that."

"Oh, don't be so old-fashioned," Hermione said. "Witches have been asking wizards for hundreds of years. And Neville and I have been together for two years now, and he's doing really well with the greenhouse, and I've finally got a stable position with regular hours ...and we're very happy together, he and I. We work well together. I think it may be time."

Harry stalled for a moment by thoroughly chewing his sandwich. It had taken him long enough to get used to Hermione and Neville dating in the first place, years ago; he wasn't certain what to think of them getting married. Of Hermione getting married. "Are you sure?" he asked, the first thought to come into his mind.

"Well, I'm sure of _myself,_" she said, "and I think I've a good idea how he feels...but we did just move into the cottage, and I don't want him to feel pressured. Thought at the same time I don't see much point in waiting too much longer, because I'd so like a spring wedding, and we need all the time we can get to plan everything."

Harry shrugged. "Well, er...good luck, I guess. You're not going to do it today, are you?"

"Oh, heavens no!" she said. "I thought I'd wait a few weeksthis is the busiest time of the year at the greenhouse, you know, everything ripening. I want to be able to sit down and discuss it with him."

"Discuss? What, you're not going to get down on one knee?"

It was a feeble joke and Harry knew it; Hermione seemed to finally catch on to his discomfort and frowned. "Well, anyway, I was just wondering what you thought of it," she said. "What we were talking about before that?"

"Er...your birthday?" he suggested.

"Percy and Penny's dinner!" she said firmly. "So, do you think you'll be able to come? You do get a dinner break when you work those mad hours, don't you?"

Harry coughed again and prodded his half-eaten sandwich. "I don't think I'll make it," he said.

Hermione had, however, known him far too long. "Because you'll be working or because you just won't come?" she prompted. Harry took the largest bite out of his sandwich he could manage without choking, which seemed to serve as her answer. "Honestly, if this is about Ginny, I've told you again and again that you're being unreasonable. She's _tried_ to apologize"

"Thi ha nuyun" Harry swallowed a painfully large lump of roast beef on rye. "This has nothing to do with her. I'd just rather not go."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "I see."

"See _what?"_

She speared her salad with decisive force, but lowered her voice. "Harry, you can't go on living like this forever."

"Like _what?"_ he asked, glaring at her.

But Hermione never could take a hint. "Like a hermit," she hissed. "Or a martyr. Or...damn it, the war is over!"

"I know that," he said, "I was the one who ended it."

"Then why don't you _act_ like it?" she said. "You live in that horrible little flat, you only come out to work, you barely even talk to anyone who really cares about you"

"What's it look like I'm doing here?"

"And how much did I have to twist your arm to talk you into coming?"

Harry shoved his plate away, appetite gone. "I didn't come here to get a lecture, Hermione, so if you're just going to scold me forfor not living up to your standards of sociability"

"Harry Potter!" she said, loud enough that a couple of nearby diners turned their heads. Reining in her voice, she continued, "I'm only saying it because I'm _worried_ about you. You don't do anything but work and you spend so much time alone"

"I've been in training," he said. "That doesn't exactly allow for a full social calendar."

"Your training is over," she said. "Isn't it time to move on?"

Something hot and tight and ugly leapt in Harry's chest. "Oh, and you're quite the expert on that, aren't you?" he snapped. "Look how quickly you moved on from Ron."

Hermione's eyes went very round, and for a moment she seemed to stop breathing. "How dare you," she said as soft as snow.

Harry cringed. "That was out of line," he admitted.

"Yes," she snapped, "it was."

"I'm sorry."

"I have never forgotten Ron," she said, ignoring him, "no more than you have. I _loved_ him, Harry, but that doesn't meanthat is, I don'tI find it more productive to attend to the living than obsess over the dead!"

"I don't" Harry protested.

But Hermione had pushed her plate away, too, and was gathering her purse and coat. "Thank you for the pen," she said with a distinct wobble in her voice. "Don't forget that dinner's at seven. If you can take time out of your busy schedule to come."

"Hermione, wait"

She threw a few bills down onto the table and stalked out of the restaurant, head held unnaturally stiff and high. Harry slumped down in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, wondering how he'd managed to bring the card and not his brain to the restaurant. Though why she'd even brought it upwhy she couldn't just leave well enough alone for once in her life, instead of sticking her nose in his business when he clearly didn't want her help, didn't even need it

"Sir?" The waiter had appeared at the table as if from thin air. "Is everything all right?"

"Grand," Harry said. "Can I get the check, please?"

-/--/--/-

 

The argument left him in a grumpy mood for most of the afternoon, with no one to take it out on. He stared at transcripts of firecalls made by a suspected necromancer, but his concentration flickered between the parchment and Hermione's accusationsno, they weren't accusations, she was just sayingbut did have to be so blunt about it? _Isn't it time to move on?_ What was that supposed to mean, anyway?

As far as Harry was concerned, he had moved onif he moved any further on he'd be in China. He'd left Voldemort and the prophecy behind, and now he was just another junior Auror with a crappy schedule, killing time between real assignments, and he liked it that way. He _liked_ his flatso what if it wasn't the biggest or the fanciest? So what if the toilet backed up twice a month and the windows let in a draft? At least it was a Muggle building, and his neighbors left him well enough alone.

Harry _liked_ being left alone.

Hermione just didn't understandas usual, she'd decided on the best course of action with no reference to the facts on the ground. Like the way she kept bringing up Ginny. Harry wasn't going to let Ginny apologize because Ginny had nothing to apologize for. Everything Ginny had said after Ron's death had been truewell, most of itand Harry had no intention of forgetting it. Ron had let himself be captured by Death Eaters so that Harry could get away with the Ravenclaw Horcrux; without that sacrifice, Harry might never have been able to kill Voldemort. It seemed unfair, a bit dishonorable even, not to remember that. But to listen to Hermione talk, that made him some kind of guilt-wracked obsessiveshe didn't understand that he just feared forgetting the past, in case he had to repeat it...

He started when Tonks knocked on the edge of his cubical; she smirked at him. "Wotcher, Harry," she said. "Thinking deep thoughts?"

"Sort of," he said, shuffling the transcripts so it would look more like he'd been productive. He glanced at the clock and winced; it was nearly teatime. "What's up?"

"Got a live one," Tonks said. "Thought you might like to help question him."

That caught Harry's attention. Interrogation wasn't an official part of the training program, though Kingsley had insisted he observe more than a few of them; still, observation was all he'd ever done, up to now. "Who is it?"

"Theodore Nott the Younger, remember him?"

"Somewhat. I know his father was a Death Eater."

"Right," Tonks said, holding up a very fat file folder. "Got Kissed in '98 and we never even proved half the things he was implicated in. No such evidence on the son, officially, but it's hard to believe he didn't know what the old man was up to, which means aid and abet, at the very least."

"Where'd we catch him?" Harry asked.

"Dover." Tonks beckoned him into the corridor, and he followed her through the winding aisles of cubicles. "He was trying to skip the country by boat, but a local saw him Confund a couple of dock workers and reported it to Improper Use."

Tonks led Harry to the lifts and punched the button for Level Nine. "So what are we holding him for?" Harry asked. "Just aid and abet?"

Her mouth twisted. "Right now, yeah, we haven't got proof of anything else. But Kingsley seems to think he'd be willing to take a deal."

Harry frowned, too. It made strategic senseif Nott really had been living the virtuous life, they couldn't charge him with anything more severe than aiding and abetting his father's crimes, and if he hadn't, he might be willing to turn informant in order to avoid a harsher sentence. Harry just didn't particularly like the idea of letting anyone off the hook for their crimes, no matter how cooperative they were. Still, if it got them more information than a stack of firecall transcripts... "Do you think he'll talk?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Personally, I'm not convinced he's got anything to say. But Kingsley has a hunch..."

They journeyed down to the lowest cellar of the Ministry. Level Ten housed high-security detainment cells for the most dangerous prisoners; Harry assumed that Kingsley was just trying to intimidate Nott by bringing him down here. From the outside, each cell was a rounded cage made of iron bars as thick as Harry's wrist, and only one was occupied. Nott was still about as scrawny and rabbit-faced as he'd been in school, but his hair hung in his eyes and he had a faint five o'clock shadow over his weak chin. His face was expressionless as he stared straight ahead, but Harry noted that Nott's fingers were drumming against his knee, fast and relentless, jingling the sturdy chains that bound his wrists to a peg in the floor.

Kingsley was standing outside the cell, reading a thin scroll that he rolled up as soon as they approached. "Ready?" he asked softly.

"As ever," Tonks said, all mischief gone.

"What exactly am I here for?" Harry asked.

"Make friends with him," Kingsley said.

"Excuse me?" he said, a bit too loud.

"Be nice," Tonks said. "Go easy on him. I'm going to scare him a bit, you've got to reassure him. If he thinks you'll protect him, he'll talk to you."

"You really think that'll work?" Harry asked. He'd had little to do with Nott in school, but he'd never gotten the impression that he was particularly friendly, nor particularly stupid.

"Not all at once," Kingsley said. "Odds are he won't say anything useful today. But this lays the groundworkif you think you can manage it."

"Of course I can," Harry said quickly.

"Then let's do this." Kingsley lifted the stout iron bar that barred the door.

Tonks hesitated for a moment, then crossed her eyes and turned her hair an ominous shade of jet-black. Harry thought it made her look a bit too much like Bellatrix Lestrange, then realized that was probably the point. "Just follow my lead," she said, before she entered the cell. Harry was only a step behind her.

The cells looked completely different on the inside, so much so that Harry might've thought he'd been transported somewhere else. They seemed to be standing at the bottom of a deep well, with the pool of light emerging from impossibly high above them. The walls were dead to all sound, and when Harry glanced back over his shoulder he saw no sign of the door they'd just entered through, just smooth stone with hardly any space between the blocks.

"Theodore Nott," Tonks said in a commanding, contemptuous voice. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Nott looked up at her, glanced quickly at Harry, then met Tonks' eyes again. "Nothing in particular," he said mildly.

Tonks snorted. "Think keeping quiet will keep you out of Azkaban?"

"I don't remember when Confunding Muggles became an imprisonable offense," Nott said. Harry noted that his fists were tight around the bottom of his dirty, ill-fitting jumper.

"That's why you were trying to leave the country, was it?" she asked. "A habit of Confunding Muggles?"

Nott's jaw clenched, but he stayed silent.

Tonks started pacing leisurely circles around the cell; Harry elected for the moment to stay where he was, in the background. "We've got a fair bit of information on you, you know," she said; it was a very smooth bluff. "More than you probably think."

Both of Nott's hands were now clenched in this jumper.

"You've lead a very interesting life, haven't you, Mr. Nott?" she drawled. "Well, actually, your father did most of the really interesting stuff...sort of a tradition, was it? Enjoy a bit of Muggle torture with dear old Daddy?

Nott's breath had sped up.

"There's some other things you could share with him, you know...same cell in Azkaban, for instance...maybe even the same Dementor..."

"Tonks," Harry said sharply. "That's unnecessary."

She looked down at Nott, who was practically shaking on the spot. Harry briefly wondered why the comments affected him so deeply, and how long she would've carried on if he hadn't interrupted. Tonks squatted in front of Nott, who wouldn't look at her. "What make you so eager to leave the country, Nott? Pressing engagement abroad?"

"Go to hell," Nott hissed.

Harry took a deep breath and stepped into the circle of light, behind Tonks and a little to her left. "You're only hurting yourself," he said, trying to sound earnest. "If you keep quiet, it just looks like you've got something to hide."

"Who doesn't?" Nott asked.

Tonks grabbed Nott's face and forced it up so she could look at him. "You're only hurting yourself," she said, aping Harry's tone of voice. "We can make sure you're put away for a very long time."

"You can't prove anything," Nott spat, twisting away from her grasp.

"Are you quite certain about that?"

Tonks went back to her pacing, and Harry knelt down and took her place. "Look," he said softly, "If you cooperate with us, it'll look very good to the Wizengamot. They might reduce your sentencemaybe let you get away with a lighter charge."

"You can't prove anything," Nott said again, stony-faced.

Tonks clucked her tongue. "We can prove your father was a murdering son of a bitch," she said, "and that you lived under his roof without reporting him. That's aiding and abetting a criminal act, that is."

"It's not a severe charge," Harry added quickly. "A few years in prison, a fine..."

Tonks stopped and stood right behind Nott. "Of course, it's just a short step from aiding and abetting to collusion...maybe even conspiracy," she said. "And your dear old dad did some pretty horrible things for you to be colluding in."

"You can't prove it," Nott said for the third time, but Harry noted that sweat had broken out on his forehead, and his voice seemed to have abruptly gotten higher.

"We can't," Harry said, and Tonks' eyebrows rose behind Nott's back. "Not right now, anyway."

"Not yet," she said.

"And maybe not ever," Harry said. "Frankly, there's a lot of people I'd rather see in Azkaban than you. People who deserve it a whole lot more."

Tonks stayed silent while Nott stared at Harry, pale eyes wide and gleaming. Harry wondered if Kingsley had been right.

"Since when has the Chosen One lowered himself to working with Slytherins?" Nott asked acidly.

_Since he had a job to do,_ Harry thought, but couldn't come up with a way to make it sound friendly. Luckily Tonks stepped in, coming around Nott's other side and grabbing Harry's arm. "Come on, Potter. Mr. Nott obviously isn't in a talkative mood. Let's hope he comes around by the time the Wizengamot hears his case."

Tonks started to pull Harry towards the hidden exit, and Harry dragged his feet a bit, glancing over his shoulder. Nott was watching them go with feverish eyes, and suddenly he flung himself as far forward as his chains allowed. "Wait!" he blurted. "I canI'lllisten, I know some stuff!"

"So do I," Tonks said cheerfully. "I can make macaroons, for instance."

"I know where you can find a Dark wizard," Nott said, sounding desperate. "More than oneloads! I know where they're hiding, I know who's with them"

Tonks knocked on the stone wall as if this were the most boring thing she'd heard all day. "Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes," Nott said, staring up from the floor with feverish eyes.

Tonks shook her head. "Then it's nothing you can't tell us tomorrow."

"Potter, wait!" Nott said as Tonks pulled Harry back towards the door, "wait, pleaseI can tell you everything, all sorts of things"

Harry turned away from him with what he hoped looked like a helpless shrugTonks had a loose grip on his robe, giving all the appearance that she was dragging him out against his will.

Nott made a small, helpless sort of sound, and then shouted:

"I can tell you where to find Ron Weasley!"


	2. Chapter 2

For a crystalline second, Harry felt frozeneven his heartbeat seemed to pause. Then he understood, really _understood_ what Nott was saying, and something deep in his stomach seemed to explode. He turned and strode forwardTonks had dropped his robes, apparently in surpriseand grabbed Nott by the hair, wrenching his face off the floor. "You know where to find his body?" Harry demanded, all thoughts of interrogation technique and dealing gone like smoke.

Nott licked his lips nervously for a moment. "I know where to find him," he said slowly, holding Harry's eyes. "He's alive."

Harry grabbed a fistful of Nott's shirt with his other hand, pulling him further off the floor. "Ron Weasley died three years ago," he told him brutally, "he was captured and killed"

"I've seen him," Nott said, "I saw him just a few days ago."

"Potter," Tonks said, "this is not the time."

Harry heard her, but she might as well have been miles away. "What the hell do you mean, you saw him a few days ago?" he growled, tightening his grip.

Nott squirmed in Harry's grasp. "I mean I _saw_ him," he repeated. "Alive. As in not dead."

"You're sure it was him?"

"Bit hard to mistake him for someone else" Nott must've seen something in Harry's face, because he quickly added, "but yeah, I'm sure it was him, it had to be."

"And he's really alive?"

"Might be better off dead, but"

"Potter." Tonks said again, closer. "Not now."

Once again he ignored her. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Who's holding him?"

"Up north," Nott said, "I've been to the house. Rodolphus Lestrange and a pack of wanna-be Dark wizards, they're in hiding up in the islands"

"And they're holding him prisoner?"

Nott's mouth twisted into something that resembled a smile, revealing a jagged, broken tooth. "I suppose you could call it that...looked to me like he was more of a pet, really..."

Harry wanted to shake him, hit him, shout at him until he got the answers he wanted, but Tonks seized his wrist in one hand and the back of his robes in the other. _"Harry,_" she said firmly, "save it."

He looked up at her, and briefly resented how quickly she'd regained composure. "Aren't you listening?" he demanded. "He's talking"

"And whatever it is, he can say it later," she said.

"Tonks"

"This conversation is over, Potter," she said with merciless firmness. "And we are leaving now."

She pulled him uphalf-dragged him, like a recalcitrant puppyand pushed him towards the door. He glanced back, just once, before he stepped through the illusory stone wallNott was watching him go with steady eyes, and while he was still sprawled on all fours, still shaking and panting, Harry could've sworn the other man's face was twisted into the faintest of smirks.

Then he was out of the cell, and stumbling towards Kingsley, who looked just short of furious. He seized Harry's arm and marched him out of the detention area, into an anteroom used by guards. "What," he asked with icy calm, "was that?"

"He knows where they've got Ron," Harry said, wincing at how young he sounded.

"What he knows," Kingsley said with rising volume, "is that you'll completely lose your head the moment he mentions that name again. You have given him an _edge,_ Potter."

"You could at least have let me get the details out of him"

"How do we even know he's telling the truth?"

"Why the hell would he lie about a thing like that?"

"Whoa," Tonks said, making a slashing motion through the air with her hand. "Okay. Deep breaths, everyone."

Kingsley glared at both of them, but lowered his voice. "Harry," he said, "if we jump on this claim too quickly, and it's bogus, it'll only encourage him to lie to us."

"Butheare you even going to ask him about it again?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Tonks said, folding her arms. "I agree it's a weird thing to come up with, but...Harry, it's not all that plausible, is it? If he was counting on you overreacting"

"I'm not overreacting!"

"Any reaction is overreaction," Kingsley said flatly. "And plausible or not, we can't afford to let suspects lead us around by the nose. If you can't be objective about this, Potter, then you are off the case, end of story."

Harry wasn't certain whether he wanted to beg or punch Kingsley in the nose, but he certainly didn't want to grit his teeth and say "Yes, sir," which was exactly what he did. Without waiting for a dismissal, he stalked out the room, fists clenched achingly tight. Neither Kingsley nor Tonks, wisely enough, didn't try to stop him.

 

-/--/--/-

 

Harry went through the rest of his day and most of the next barely aware of what he was doing. Warring images chased themselves around his brain, each one more vivid than the last. Maybe, even now, Ron was bound and chained in some dank dungeonor caged like an animal in a dusty ruinmaybe he was thin and injured now, maybe he looked a little different, but maybe he was alive, maybe he could stride out into the sunlight any minute if only Harry could find him

Or maybe he'd been dead for three years, and Nott was lying through his broken teeth.

It had taken Harry months to admit that Ron was dead the first time. He had held out hope long after Hermione had started talking about him in the past tense, even after the Weasleys had buried an empty coffin next to Charlie's. Harry had told himself that until he saw the body, it wasn't really true: that the Death Eaters didn't take prisoners without a purpose. Even after Voldemort was dead, Harry clung to a useless fantasy that Ron would turn up any day in an abandoned Death Eater hide-out, or be found lost the countryside after his captors cut and run. It wasn't until a whole year had passed with no evidence, no sign that Harry had finally admitted to himself that it had just been too long; that Ron, wherever he had gone, was probably never coming back.

But if Ron _was_ alive, had been the whole time? If he really had been held prisoner these past few years? It was absurdhe'd been captured only because of Harry, because he'd protected Harry, because he'd been Harry's friend. There was no reason for a Death Eater to have kept prisoners once the war ended. But if they had kept himif he was still alivealive, imprisonedNott has said, _more of a pet, really_

It didn't make sense. In fact, it was completely improbable. Maybe Kingsley was right, and Nott was just trying to manipulate them into letting him off. But if there was even the slimmest chance, the scantest shred of truth in the claim...Rabastan Lestrange had killed himself when Harry took out Voldemort, and Bellatrix had been killed months before dueling an Auror, but Rodolphus had never been caught and was still officially at large. If he'd kept Ron for some bizarre reason, if Ron had been alive all this time and they hadn't been searching for him, had wasted time they could've spent freeing him...

But it couldn't be true. They had searched _everywhere,_ every crack and corner of England. At first Harry had thought Ron would be used as bait, as Sirius had been, or later that he'd be held for some kind of ransom...but no, there was never anything. Ron was just another blood traitor, another enemy. No reason for a Death Eater like Lestrange to take any sort of interest in him, no reason to keep him alive...

But what if someone had?

But what if Nott was lying?

But what if he wasn't?

But, but, but...

It drove Harry to distraction: there was no chance he could actually read and make sense of the transcripts he was supposed to be evaluating, but Kingsley and Tonks were nowhere to be see. Which was just as well, because he wasn't certain what he'd do if he did see them. Beg? Grab one of them and shake them until they let him back onto the case? Apologize and try to convince them he could be objective when he was too preoccupied to do anything but ask himself _what if, what if, but but but...._ No, he was probably better off where he was, pacing his cubicle in between bouts of pretending to work. Though he wanted to know what, if anything Nott was sayingwanted it more than he'd wanted anything in a long timehe didn't go so far as to seek someone out who knew. No need to embarrass himself any more than he already had.

By Thursday evening, though, it had simply become too much. When the clock on his desk finally ticked around to "dinner," he stared at the pile of paperwork he'd barely touched, checked his watch for just a moment, and grabbed his cloak off the peg.

"Taking my break," he told Williamson, the senior Auror on duty this time of night.

"Going out?"

"I'll be back in an hour or so."

He didn't really think about what he was doing or where he was going until he'd already Apparated; it took him several minutes of fierce concentration before he was sure he could do it without splinching himself. He couldn't say why it suddenly seemed like a good idea, but he was certain that if he stayed in that cubicle one minute longer the top of his head was just going to pop right off and break a light fixture. He had to get out, _do_ something, do _something_. And having decided that, well, where else was he going to go?

The windows in the Ministry had been full of a clear autumn sunset, but when he appeared in Devon it was damp and overcast, almost full dark already. The lane that lead up to the Burrow was a muddy morass pocked with piles of early-falling leaves that likely concealed deep puddles between the ruts. The familiar old house was alive and shining at the top of its hill, full of warmth and life and memories. Harry watched the bright windows for a moment, and the shadows moving across them, torn for a moment between Apparating straight back or braving the lane, knocking on the door, going inside...

Someone stepped out onto the front porch and took the decision out of his hands. "Oi!" the figure called out, leaning over the rail. "Who's down there!"

Harry stepped forward, stumbling a bit on the slick grass, and waved. "'S me!"

The figure on the porch made an exaggerated peering gesture, then clutched at his chest. "Bless me, do my eyes deceive me? Has the prodigal truly returned? Shall I alert the media?"

In spite of himself and the turmoil still circling his mind, Harry felt himself smile. "Piss off, Fred."

"I'm George, thank you very much. You see how long you've been away?" As Harry made his way up the lane, picking a path between the mud and the verge, Georgeor whichever one he wasstuck his head back in the house and shouted something indecipherable. The steady babble of voices from inside became a torrent as what looked like half the family spilled out on the porch to greet Harry on the occasion of his first visit in...he actually couldn't quite recall the last time he had visited, now. Quite a long time.

Mrs. Weasley was the first out the door and the first one to get to him when he climbed the front steps: she hugged Harry tightly and charmed his shoes clean in nearly the same motion. "Oh, Harry, dear, it's good of you to make it," she said.

"Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Weasley," he mumbled.

"Oh, don't say it like that, dear, you know you're always welcome here." She hugged him again, tight enough to make him squirm, and then she pulled him inside, into a wall of Weasleys. The other twin, allegedly Fred, slapped him on the back, Mr. Weasley shook his hand vigorously, and Bill threw an arm around his shoulders, all the while they were talking at once, greeting him, welcoming and castigating him in a steady stream of overlapping voices. Harry took it all in, offering up generalized thanks and apologizes, and after a moment he found himself being pushed towards the kitchen at the head of a noisy, unruly procession.

At some point in the last few years the Weasleys had given up pride and enlarged parts of the house, so that the kitchen was now just big enough for a massive table that seated everyone at a squeeze. The walls, which had always held a chaotic jumble of photographs, were now wide enough to accommodate twice their previous capacity. Most of the pictures were new and unfamiliar to Harry, but every few feet there was a familiar scene or a face looming out of the corner of his vision that reminded him of childhood holidays and his first tastes of family. He did his best to keep his eyes fixed to the front.

The rest of the family was at the table, still picking at an enormous dinner. Percy and Penelope were near seated at one end of the massive new tablethe end further from Fred and George, Harry was willing to betand they smiled politely at Harry when he came in, but didn't get up. Next to them was Fleur, who was bouncing a squirmy baby on her knee and trying to tempt him with a spoonful of unidentifiable green paste. Jack, Harry recalled dimly, the baby was Jack, who had just been born...he couldn't actually remember when Jack was born. Damn it. He hoped he'd sent a card or something.

At the other end of the table sat Hermione, Neville and Ginny, two of whom actually looked pleased to see him. Neville stood partway and leaned around Hermione's back to shake Harry's hand. "Good to see you," he said cheerily, pumping Harry's arm vigorously. It was easy to forget just how strong Neville now; he still had that boyishly round face, but he also didn't need a wand to move fifty-pound sacks of fertilizer.

"Good to see you, too," Harry said, releasing his grip before his arm popped off entirely. "How's business?"

"Boomingor should I say blooming?" Neville said with a self-effacing grin. "Never been busier."

"I thought you were working tonight, Harry?" Hermione asked, just a hint too politely.

"I get an hour for dinner," he said as casually as he could force. "I, er, thought I'd drop by."

"Only an hour?" Mrs. Weasley said, as if that was the most appalling thing she'd ever heard. "Sit, Harry, sit, I'll get you a plate..."

As everyone shuffled back to their seats, Mr. Weasley conjured another chair in the midst of the confusion, next to Fleur. Fred and George glanced at one another, smirked, and shifted their plates one chair over each, so that the vacant seat chair ended up next to Ginny. She looked at it like it had landed from another planet. "Er," Harry said, sitting down slowly, "hi."

"Hi," she said with no particular inflection. "Fleur, pass down the potatoes, will you?"

"'allo, 'Arry," Fleur said, balancing the baby with one hand while she flicked her wand at the potato dish and sent it zooming down the table. _"Dis 'salut' à Oncle Henri, Jacques!"_

The baby waved at Harry and babbled something unintelligible. Bill took his seat again and ruffled the boy's light red hair. "That's my boy, Jack," he said. "You tell him."

"He's gotten big," Harry said as Mrs. Weasley passed him a handful of cutlery. "How old is he now, two?"

"'E is not yet one," Fleur said with a bit of a frown.

"Er. Right." Hermione cleared her throat slightly, and Harry scowled at her. "That's what I meant, one."

"He's big for his age, though," Neville offered.

Fleur beamed. "'E is, no? 'E is taking after 'is papa..."

"Nah, I was a runt as a sprog, wasn't I, Mum?" Bill said, then added a bit wistfully. "Charlie was the big one."

Harry quickly looked down at his hands, and Percy coughed loudly, but no one else seemed particularly affected by the mention of their deceased brother. Hermione nudged Harry gently and raised her eyebrows at him, as if this should've made some sort of point. If it did, Harry didn't particularly want to hear it.

"You were both fat babies," Mrs. Weasley declared, "and Jack is the spitting image of your grandfather Septimus." She dropped a plate in front of Harry that was positively groaning with food; it was probably more than Harry had eaten in the past two days, and the smell alone was enough to make his stomach growl. "There you go dear, now eat up, you don't want to be late back to work."

Harry started shoveling food into his mouth and let himself get lost in the dull roar of conversation around the crammed table. Hermione made an effort to include him, but it was awkward trying to talk across Ginny, who seemed to be more or less ignoring him. Instead she was chatting with Fred and George about some minor legal tangle they'd gotten into involving one of their products, a discussion that involved copious sound effects and a demonstration involving a roast potato and the butter knife. At the other end of the table, Fleur and Penelope cooed to Jack in French while Neville gave Mrs. Weasley advice about keeping the gnomes out of her pumpkins. Percy, Bill, and Mr. Weasley were holding up a halting conversation about goblin politics on the other side of the table, or rather, Bill was moderating the stiff exchange between his father and brother. Percy still wasn't close to his familyas if he ever really had beenand there were still certain fault lines running through these sorts of get-togethers, based on the few that Harry had brought himself to attend over the past few years. But Percy had eventually managed to swallow his pride and extend the olive branch, had made his peace with his father and siblings, though they first had to lose Charlie, and then Ron

The food stuck in Harry's throat for a moment, and his mouth felt strangely dry. So much had changed when they lost Ron. _What if, what if, what if..._

"You all right, Harry?" George askedhe was fairly certain now that this one was Georgewith a bit of a frown.

He nodded and coughed a bit, swallowing a quick mouthful of pumpkin juice. "Yeah. Fine."

"You sure?"

"Yup, I'm great." He forced a smile and choked down another fork of potatoes, though his stomach suddenly felt tight. Didn't Ron's family have the right to know where he was, how he was? Didn't he have the obligation to tell them? But, buthe scanned the table of smiling, laughing facesshould he bring up such a painful subject when they had clearly already put it past them? Was it fair to make them hope again? Was it fair to withhold the possibility of hope?

Where was Ron now?

"Dessert!" Mrs. Weasley sang out, and Summoned an enormous cake from the kitchen. It had gooey white icing with _Congratulations Percy and Penelope_ piped on top in sparkly purple letters. "Who wants a slice? The happy couple, of courseand Harry, I know you like chocolate swirl"

"Er, I'm full, thanks," he said, and pushed his plate aside. The noise and laughter and warmth of the meal suddenly felt oppressive and disturbing.

"Are you certain? Not even a taste?" Mrs. Weasley asked, frowning.

He glanced at his watch very deliberately. "Actually, I should probably get going"

"Oh, of coursewait just a bit, I'll make you up a plate to take home."

"You really don't have to"

"Nonsense, it's no trouble at all." She reached over and poked him in the side. "Besides, you can't be feeding yourself properly, you're positively starved..."

Hermione was giving him a Significant Look and he ignored it; instead he squeezed out of his chair and grabbed his cloak. If he stayed in here any longer he'd either say something he'd regret or regret not saying something. "I'll be outside," he mumbled. "Ergood to see everyone. Congratulations, Perce, Penny, really happy for you..."

He escaped the chorus of goodbyes at his back and stood on the porch. A steady drizzle had resumed in while he was inside, swelling the deep puddles in the lane and trinkling down the rickety gutters. Why had he come here, anyway? To appease Hermione? To distract himself? To find some kind of answer to one of the fifty million but-what-ifs he had already asked himself? The Weasleys weren't going to give him thatif anything, he should be giving them answers, telling them what happened to Ron and why. As if he couldas if he actually knew. He wasn't even sure there was anything to tell.

The door swung open and he automatically turned around, saying, "Thank you. Mrs. Weasley, you really didn't have to" But he got hung up halfway when he realized it was Ginny standing at the front door, holding a dinner plate heaped high with food and tightly wrapped in waxed parchment. "Er."

She smiled a bit without quite meeting his eyes. "Herecareful, it's heavy." He grabbed the plate, felt their fingers brush together along the bottom. "Erm. Mum charmed it to stay fresh, but you'd still better put it somewhere cold right away."

"Thanks. I'll, um, do that." There was a cold-spelled cabinet in the break room at work, he noted, he could leave it there until he got off work, so long as he put a hex on it because Calhoun would eat just about anything if it was left unattended for more than an hour

"Harry." Ginny looked at him now, biting her lip a bit. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, but loose wisps blossomed around her face like a halo. "Is everything really all right?"

"Fine," he said quickly. "It's fine."

"You seem sort of...preoccupied."

He waved one hand vaguely through the air. "Just got some stuff on my mind. Work." _Ron. _"You know."

She nodded, and there was a long moment of silence, during which Harry told himself three times over that he needed to leave. They both watched the rain come down, and it occurred to him that if things had been differentvery differentthis wouldn't be an awkward pause at all. This would be normal, if not for Ron and Voldemort and a dozen little decisions in between; too late now, though, far too late to do anything about it.

_(But what if, but what if, but if...)_

"Er," Ginny said, and cleared her throat a little. "Harry. I know we haven't really talked a lot these past few...er..."

"Years," he supplied.

"Right," she said. "And I'm sorry for that."

Harry's hands tightened around the plate he was still holding. "'Snot your fault"

"No, let me say this," she said quickly. "I'm sorry forlook, I don't want you avoiding the Burrow just because you don't want to see me."

"I'm not" He shook his head. "I know I haven't been around much, but I've been busy. Work and stuff."

"Mum misses you," she said. "Everyone does. And I'm just sayingit's been over three years now."

Harry swallowed.

"And if I'm not over it by now, I never will be." She glanced up at him. "I know I can't take back what I said aboutwhen we lost Ron, but for what it's worth, I'm sor"

"I have to go," Harry blurted, and Disapparated on the spot.

He rushed back to the Auror's Division and stuffed his plate in the cold cabinet. If he'd stayed one minute longer, he would've blurted it out, he was positive. Ginny had called him every filthy name in the book when they thought Ron was killed, and he knew at the time he deserved most of them, but if Ron was really alive the whole time, if they'd been wronghe wasn't sure what that meant. Maybe that he deserved more filthy names than ever. Maybe that he didn't deserve any at all.

Bloody hell, this was going to make him go insane.

He shuffled back to his cubicle, nodding to Calhoun and Williamson as he passed them. Williamson spun in his chair and leaned out into the corridor. "Oi, Potter, saw a memo head for your cubicle right after you left."

"Thanks, Williamson," he said. It was probably a scold for not making any progress on the transcripts the past two days. He had to put the whole Ron issue out of his mind before he really lost ithis mind or his job. He dropped into his desk chair and caught the memo as it started to flap about his face.

Inside it read:

 

_Potter_

We've got partial corroboration on the Nott case. We're launching an investigation into a suspicious residence in the Hebrides. The mission briefing will take place at nine AM sharp tomorrow morning.

Shacklebolt

 

There was a tiny subscript in more feminine hand that curled up the right margin.

_  
p.s. Don't get your hopes up._

 

Harry read the lines over and over again, then sat back and shut his eyes. _Don't get your hopes up,_ he repeated. _It might not mean anything. Nott might be lying. Ron might really be dead._

But damn, it was hard not to wonder _but what if, what if, what if..._


	3. Chapter 3

"The house in question," Kingsley said, "is located on its own island a quarter a mile southeast of the Isle of Lewis." He pointed to a map with his wand; a tiny dot somewhere in Scotland lit up dramatically. "It's got three floors, fourteen rooms, and is listed as currently being owned by Mr. Quintillius Branch of Aberdeen."

He banished the map; underneath was a large photograph of a moldy, rambling mansion with a single dead tree in the front garden. Harry lowered the cup of coffee he'd been nursing and examined the image from his seat in the back row. Could Ron be behind one of those broken windows, buried within the crumbling, ivy-choked walls?

"Mr. Branch could not be located," Kingsley continued, "and naked-eye observation would suggest the place was abandoned. However, the Pest Control board tells me there's been a massive increase in the number of nuisance creatures within a five-mile radiusmagical creatures that would be drawn to magical buildings. Which suggests there's something more than a Muggle-repelling charm or two at work in the area."

Williamson cleared his throat. "What about wizards and witches in the village, then? Have they seen anything unusual?"

"A slight increase in travelers," Tonks said, "which wouldn't be specifically unusual if more than half of them didn't match descriptions of known or suspected Dark Arts enthusiasts. They haven't exactly been coming in buckets, but they've been aroundjust passing through, allegedly."

"Theodore Nott 'passed through' three days before we caught up to him," Kingsley said, with only the slightest glance in Harry's direction. "He's the only one the village innkeeper said showed an interest in the Branch House. But he claims to have been inside the house and seen a laundry list of Dark activity in progress, as well as more than a few Death Eaters at large." That caused a mumble through the room, but to Harry's frustration, Kingsley didn't say anything more, particularly about any alleged prisoners.

"If the place is inhabited, they're keeping a very low profile, Dark or not," Tonks said. "Everyone in the villageMuggle and magicis positive that the house and grounds are deserted and have been for years."

"So for the time being," Kingsley said, "we're going to stick to ground-level surveillance of the site, and the innkeeper has agreed to the insertion of an agent on his staff to monitor any new visitors to the townthat'll be Stokes. Calhoun and Williamson, you two are to look into the identity of Mr. Branch. Everyone else is on passive stake-out for the time being; you can get those assignments from Tonks. Come to me if you have any further questions."

Harry lingered at the back of the room while, listening to Tonks shout out names and hand out scrolls with complete assignments. He did a quick head-count of the room: not counting Stokes, Calhoun and Williamson, there were eight other Aurors assigned to the project, which was a pretty large detachment if Kingsley honestly didn't believe Nott's story. Then again, it was just like Kingsley not to half-arse anything, even a sketchy lead from an untrustworthy source. Eight other Aurors also left someone as the odd one out, unless Tonks was taking part in the surveillance, and having five teams of two doing a stake-out just didn't seem like a practical schedule. Unless...

Harry's fingers dented the paper coffee cup as answers clicked into place. He planted himself next to Tonks and waited for her to call out his assignment.

She didn't.

"What about me?" he asked her when she had handed over the last scroll in her arm. "What am I supposed to do?"

Tonks hesitated, then said softly, "Harry, I'm sorry"

"Am I partnering with you, then?" he said, crumpling the empty cup in his fist.

"Potter," Kingsley said from behind him, "let's talk about this in private."

Harry gestured around the conference room, which had rapidly emptied as the rest of the team set to work. "How much more private can you get?"

Tonks grabbed Harry's shoulder and squeezed it, not to restrain him but as a gesture of support. "Harry, look, we wanted you to know that the investigation was moving forward, but"

"But you don't think I'm _objective_ enough to handle it," he said.

"No," Kingsley said, "I didn't."

"You signed off on my certification, you swore me in yourself"

Kingsley put up both hands. "Harry," he said, "this isn't a statement about your qualifications. Every Auror has to recuse himself from a case from time to time, when it gets too personal. Our world's too small for it not to happen."

"This isn't too personal!"

"I don't think you have the perspective to make that judgement."

Harry exhaled loudly and took a step back, but repressed the urge to storm out this timebarely. The calmer parts of his mind recognized that they shouldn't even be communicating with him about this; both regulation and custom dictated that every team or individual's work stay fairly self-contained, or at least need-to-know, for the duration of a case. They were trying to accommodate him; he could at least do the same. "How long do you think you'll maintain the stakeout?" he asked, certain that if his voice were any leveler he could balance an egg on it.

Kingsley shrugged. "Maybe a few days, maybe weeksit depends on what we gather and if anyone tips their hands."

"Not that we're expecting Lestrange to waltz out and start de-gnoming the back garden," Tonks said, "though it would be a nice change of pace, wouldn't it?"

"And in the meantime?" Harry asked.

Kingsley patted his shoulder in a fatherly sort of way. "We'll keep you posted."

-/--/--/-

 

If the preceding days of uncertainty had been painful for Harry, the ones that followed were absolute torture. Kingsley's steady thoroughness, the same trait that had shielded Harry throughout his training, was maddening to deal with from the outside: he wouldn't give more than vague hints about what, if anything, the investigation was uncovering, on the grounds that it was "too soon to tell." This was more or less the same reason Harry had kept silent in front of the Weasleys, but on the receiving end he found it frustrating beyond belief, and every time they spoke he had to bite his tongue to stop himself begging for even a scrap of more concrete information.

It wasn't quite the same degree of obsessive distraction of earlier in the week, however, and he was able to plod through his transcripts in all their mind-numbing glory. In fact, they were actually helpful in a twisted sort of waythey gave him an excuse to hang about the office even during his official off hours, which meant a chance to overhear something, anything about the investigation. He worked solidly through the weekend, catching on everything he'd missed and then some. Sunday night found him in his cubicle, rocking back in his chair, staring at a transcribed conversation about the care and feeding of Knarls.

His eyes kept crossinghe hadn't slept more than a few hours all weekendbut he soldiered on, trying to remember everything he'd ever learned in Care of Magical Creatures in case he was missing some kind of secret code. He was starting over at the top of a page for the third or fourth time in an hour when Kingsley stuck his head in the cubicle, knocking once on the edge. "I expected you to be long gone already," he said.

"No rest for the wicked," Harry mumbled. "Did you need something?"

Kingsley didn't answer this; instead he stepped into Harry's cubical and learned casually against the wall. "How are the transcripts going?"

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Do Knarls have a particular preference for stewed earthworms?"

"You know, I really couldn't tell you."

"That makes two of us."

Kingsley stood and watched him in silence for a few minutes; Harry turned back to his desk, but he could still feel the eyes on back of his neck. Finally the other man spoke: "I want you to be honest with me, Harry."

"All right."

"Are you confidentabsolutely confidentthat you can maintain your objectivity under any circumstances?"

Harry's heart sped up, and he licked his lips. "I'm not fifteen anymore, Kingsley."

"That's not what I asked."

Harry turned in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Yes. I'm not going to lose my head just because of...just because it's personal."

"Are you absolutely positive?"

"I learned that lesson a long time ago."

Kingsley nodded slowly, and folded his arms. "The Branch House is loaded with concealment charms, and we detected some powerful jinxes around the grounds. We're also pretty sure they've been stealing provisions from shops in the village; the greengrocer and the butcher both show signs of powerful and repeated Memory Charms. We've got Improper Use of Magic in on the case and we'll be going into the house tomorrow night, after dark."

Harry took a deep breath before he spoke. "'We?'"

"This is not a rescue mission," Kingsley said softly and slowly, staring into Harry's eyes. "The primary objective is capture and detainment of suspects, secondary is recovery of evidence."

"I understand that," Harry said quickly, "but suppose"

Kingsley held up one hand for silence, and after a beat he said, "In the event we do locate any non-combatants on the siteyou and Calhoun will be responsible for evacuating them to a safe zone. Am I clear?"

Harry managed not to smile, but only just. "Crystal, sir."

"Good." Kingsley started to leave, but paused in the corridor outside Harry's cubicle. "We're meeting in Stornoway tomorrow at noon to go over the final details. I expect you to be promptyou've got quite a bit of catching up to do."

"Thank you," Harry said, trying to put more feeling into the word that he could fully express.

Kingsley hesitated a bit, then nodded. "You're welcome."

-/--/--/-

 

Harry had to take a sleeping potion that night to make certain he wouldn't be useless during the raid; his dreams were filled with muzzy images of Ron and Ginny and Hermione and Sirius that fled almost as soon as he woke. He went into the office for the morning and accomplished absolutely nothing, and at precisely quarter to twelve he met Tonks and Williamson at the lift to Apparate up to Scotland.

"We've no idea what the house looks like inside," she admitted as they made their way down a rutted village lane in the general direction of Stornoway. "For all we know there's another fifty rooms added by magic. It's definitely not on the Floo, though."

"We mapped the grounds, though," Williamson said. "At least we won't be walking into any curses on the way in. Well, not too many."

Harry asked, "Did Nott say anything about the interior of the house?"

"Not much, other than the bit about it being lousy with various and sundry evil people," Tonks said, cocking an eyebrow at him. "But even if he had said anything, I'm still not totally ready to believe him."

Harry looked away from her. He shouldn't get his hopes up. He wouldn't.

It was much colder on the island than in London, and Harry wished for a heavier cloak as they hiked into town, taking an indirect route to the pub to avoid the suspicions of the Muggle residents. Harry thought he'd have trouble concentrating on the briefing, but now that he was finally involved and _doing_ something, he found it to be a welcome distraction. Nagging questions still popped into his mind brieflywhat if they didn't find Ron? What if they did?but it was easy to push them aside when he had maps to memorize and strategy to consider. The Branch House wasn't that large, but it had multiple exits, and there were several outbuildings that had to be searched and secured on the way in, as well as a garden gone to seed that might still conceal a hidden passage out.

"Move as quickly as possible," Kingsley said to the mixed group of Aurors and Enforcers taking part in the raid, "and try to preserve any evidence you come across."

"Meaning don't touch anything that looks evil," Tonks added.

"Injured and any noncombatants you find inside should be evacuated as quickly as is both possible and safe," Kingsley said. "Aurors Potter and Calhoun are in charge of that process. The evacuation site is located on the northwest corner of the property, as seen here..." He pointed with his wand to a large chart of the house and grounds, lighting up a circle near the island shore. "We have a handful of Portkeys to St. Mungo's on hand in the case of serious injury, but I don't want to have to use them. Remember, wands up, and don't hesitate to respond with extreme force if necessary."

The briefing carried on for most of the afternoon, after which they Apparated in small groups to the village nearest the Branch House. It was tiny, picturesque and had more vowels in its name than Harry felt comfortable pronouncing: the house was clearly visible from the shore, looming large in the waning light. Harry picked out the important areas of the low scrap of dry land it sat onthe outbuildings, the low spots, and the evacuation zone...

"We're waiting until after nightfall," Tonks told him as she popped up behind him. "You might as well get something to eat in the meantime."

"I'm fine," he said.

"You sure?" she asked with raised eyebrows.

"Just ready to get this over with."

The waiting was the worst part, as the sun crept down over the other side of the island. A few people did buy food in the village; Stokes was still posing as a temporary cook at the inn and got them discounts on sandwiches. Harry stayed near the staging area, an alcove where Kingsley had prepared a small fleet of enchanted rowboats. He reviewed the strategy in his head as he watched the house disappear into shadow, until the sky grew dark and a quarter moon sailed overhead, the lamps in the village square came on, and finally, _finally_ Kingsley gave the signal to set out.

Harry leapt into the nearest of the little boats, cold ocean water slogging into his shoes; once it was filled to capacity they launched themselves and glided forth. It was hard to gauge speed and direction in such deep darkness, and if Harry hadn't been able to hear the water streaming by against the sides he might've doubted they were moving at all. After a scant few minutes, though, his boat beached itself on the stony shore, and he leapt out and quickly felt his way up a slope into his position, just a few yards from the house.

The building was dark and silent, and looked for all the world like an abandoned, moldering wreck; the dead tree he'd seen in the picture had lost a large limb that lay rotting in the weedy, rolling turf. Harry squinted to make out the lay of the land before himperhaps two dozen yards to the front step, all of it treacherous footing, and not just because of the terrain. There were jinxes laying in wait for the unwary between here and there, though Kingsley had given them all maps to review that marked the most heinous, or at least the ones the surveillance teams had been able to detect. Harry would have to zigzag his way to the door and probably blast it open, though if it was protected any spells he used might well just bounce back on himblast his way into the house, and from there, not even Kingsley really knew

Golden sparks blossomed in the sky over the house, on the other side of the island, the signal from Williamson's team. Blue sparks soared up from Harry's right. Green. Red.

"Go!" Kingsley shouted from somewhere in the darkness.

The sparks shimmered in the skyoh, the Muggle-worthy Excuse Committee was going to hate them for thisilluminating the terrain just enough that Harry didn't stumble as he ran. Two paces left, turn, three paces, turn, two, five, threehis foot caught the edge of some invisible spell that exploded into a ball of fire, singing his hair. Then he was on the step, with Tonks and Kingsley and four Enforcers behind him. Kingsley pounded the tarnished knocker. "Ministry of Magic! Open up!"

From inside came a scream that was cut off sharply. Kingsley motioned them all back and shouted _"Alohomora!"_ Surprisingly, the door burst outwards with no extra effort, and Harry, as the nearest one to it, rushed inside.

The entryway was dark and reeked of disuse; there were moldy spots on the walls and all the furniture was covered in sheets. He spun to his left automatically and caught only a flurry of movement before a door slammed. He tried to wrench it open, but it had either been locked or sealed from within. "Keep moving," Kingsley called. "They're not leaving the house!"

Harry quickly searched the other rooms accessible off the hall; two were just as filthy and musty as the entryway, but two others had clearly been cleaned up a bit for human habitation. One had a lamp still burning inside, and a table covered in unfamiliar books and instruments. He laid an Imperturbable charm over the lot of them and darted back into the hall, skidding on a loose tile in the grimy floor. In the foyer a pale, sick-looking young wizard only a bit older than Harry leapt out of a cupboard with his wand up, but seemed to lose his nerve when he counted all the red robes in the room. He cast a single spell that sent up more dust than anything and fled, two Enforcers giving chase.

"Potter," Tonks called when Harry began to follow them. "You, Calhoun, with mewe're going upstairs."

Harry glanced around, but Kingsley was nowhere to be seen; muffled shouts and the sound of vicious dueling echoed from deeper in the house. "Who's securing this door?" he asked.

"They've got it from the outside," Tonks said. "Come on."

The creaking old stairs lead onto a dark, claustrophobically narrow corridor lined with closed doors. Harry tested the first one on his left, but it was firmly sealed and wouldn't give; Tonks waved them on. The next door opened onto a room that was empty but for some furniture, shrouded in sheets and shoved against a far wall. A broken window allowed a guttering sea breeze and the sound of fighting on the grounds to filter up, but the ragged, fluttering curtains were the only thing moving. He next tried the door across the hall, and found a Spartan sort of bedroom: an open book lay on a bare mattress, and on an upended crate next to it stood a candle that still dripped with liquid wax. He checked inside the wardrobe, but there was nothing but a few empty hangars and the smell of rot; there were no signs of hidden doors

"Potter!" Tonks called. "In here, now!"

He found them in a room a few doors up; it was larger than the other two and had an irregular shape with several nooks leading into shadowed corners. It hadn't just been cleaned, it had been well-furnished: a large plush bed was pushed into one corner, and a massive oaken desk stood before the fireplace, which was burning a magical fire sickly gray in color. A few lamps and candles moderated the fire's unnatural light, and also served to pick out in garish detail the bloody corpse in the middle of the floor.

While he and Calhoun covered her, Tonks knelt down and examined the body. She checked the pulse, though even from a distance Harry could tell it was dead; nothing could survive with its head reduced to such a pulp, jiggly bits of brain spilling over the fancy carpet. A cracked wand lay less than a foot away in a puddle of blood. "He's still hot," Tonks said softly. "This happened recently."

"What kind of a hex?" Williamson asked, but Harry scanned the room and spotted a stout brass candlestick on the mantelpiece, certainly large and heavy enough to deliver that kind of damage if the person on the other end was strong enough. It stood alone and off-center; he looked closer, and found a telltale ring in the dust next to it.

"Wasn't a hex," he said. "But who would?"

"Shh!" Tonks was peering into the far corner of the room, one of those odd nooks that seemed too small to hold anything useful. She lit her want faintly, and with the light traced a track of blood leading into that corner. Harry immediately came around the desk to cover her; Tonks approached the shadowed corner slowly, but from his position Harry couldn't see clearly what was inside it. Calhoun came up behind her, holding up his wand for better light.

Tonks sucked in a deep breath and stopped short. "Oh, my dear God," she whispered.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Get over here."

Heart pounding, Harry squeezed between the bed and the bloody carpet until he could see what she was looking at. When he recognized the figure crouched in the wavering beam of Calhoun's wand, he found that for a moment he couldn't breath.

The personhe was at least identifiable as thatwas nearly naked and filthy, even discounting the bits of blood and brains that were spattered across his body. His skin clung tight to his bones, and greasy, knotted red hair hung past his shoulders. Scars both old and fresh crawled across his skin, and one curled down the side of his face and left a visible ripple even in his matted beard. He had a thick leather collar around his neck, like a dog's, and a broken piece of chain dangled from the clasp and rattled faintly at it bounced in time with his shallow breath. His fingersbent, skeletal fingers with grotesquely swollen jointswere clenched around the bloody candlestick, and his eyes were glassy, unfocused, unseeing even as they flicked between Tonks and Calhoun.

"Ron?" Harry croaked out.

The wraith-like figure's eyes snapped to Harry's face. He recoiled and lofted the candlestick as if to strike again, with no sign of recognition, no sign of human thought.

Slowly, Harry took a step closer and knelt down, aiming his wandlight at his own face. "Ron," he said, "mate...it's me."

For one agonizing second, Ron continued to stare: then something behind his eyes seemed to click, and he looked, really _looked,_ into Harry's eyes. "Harry?" he croaked in a stranger's voice, barely audible.

"Yeah, mate," Harry said. "I'm right here."

The candlestick fell to the floor, and for a moment they simply stared at one another in mutual disbelief. Then Ron threw himself at Harry, provoking a yelp from Calhoun; Ron wrapped his thin arms around Harry's neck like a vise and pulled him close. Harry didn't care that Ron was covered in blood, or clad only in a pair of trousers worn down to rags, or that he smelled like he hadn't bathed in three years. For a moment he allowed himself to cling to his friend, feeling the steady heartbeat and the rush of air under his protruding ribs, the warm living flesh stretch taut over the knobby spine.

"Get me out of here," Ron sighed into Harry's ear in a shuddering voice.

"I will," Harry said. He used a severing charm to remove the collar and peeled it away, revealing a wide band of bruised and abraded skin underneath. There were hot, swollen sores on his back and shoulders, too, and the fingers clutching at his uniform robe didn't seem to be bending in the normal places.

"Get me out," Ron said in an urgent monotone, "get me out, get me out, get me out, get me out"

"Shhh, we're going, okay? We're going now." Harry pulled away and looked for something to protect Ron from the cold, and from the stares he was sure to receive from the others; Calhoun immediately offered his cloak. Harry wrapped it around Ron's shoulders and flipped up the hood, and Ron clutched it tightly, at least one finger definitely shifting as though it were broken. "Come on. We're leaving."

"We'll cover you until you hit the doors," Tonks said. "Make sure you signal yourself on the way out, and mind the booby-traps."

Harry stood and tugged at Ron's elbow; Ron started to stand, but then dropped back to his knees; he was hyperventilating, Harry realized. "Calm down," he said, wrapping Ron's arm around his shoulders. "Deep breaths, mate."

"Get me out of here," Ron whispered again.

"That's what I'm trying to do."

Ron had to lean on Harry in order walk; he had a staggering, limping gait, and Harry wasn't certain if it was due to shock or weakness or injury, or some combination of all three. He pulled Ron's arm around his shoulders and allowed himself only a moment to be startled when he realized how close they now were in heightno more than a couple of inches. Tonks covered their back as they began to pick their way down the stairs, while Calhoun trotted ahead to cover the entryway. It appeared empty for now, but scorch marks on the floor proved that there had been more trouble while they were upstairs. Harry held his wand up with his free hand, both to light the stairs more clearly and be ready in case anyone came out at them, using his other arm to help steady Ron again a potential fall.

They hadn't even made it halfway down before Harry heard running feet come up the passage next to the stairs, just out of Harry's line of sight. Ron whimpered and wobbled, halting them for a moment, as Calhoun leapt around the corner of the banister with his wand up, already shouting a curse. Then the wood beneath Harry's feet leapt inexplicably upwards, there was a tremendous roar and flash, and the last thing he could clearly remember was the smell of sawdust and Ron's bony hands clinging desperately to his arm.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry awoke slowly, and only at length had the capability to wonder who was holding a cocktail party in his bedroom. The voices weren't loud, per se, but they were interfering with his sleep.

"...file all the paperwork. The Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee is going to hate me."

"At least we got what we came for, though, eh?"

"More or less."

A switch flipped, some connection was made, and Harry's eyes flew open as he remembered. He was greeted with a few streaks of early morning daylight creeping along the ceiling of a hospital wardthey'd brought him to St. Mungo's already. He tried to sit up, but every muscle in his body seemed stiff and unresponsive.

"Hey." Kingsley trotted over from one of the other bedsit was his voice that had woken Harry. He looked exhausted, but he still helped Harry sit up in bed. "Easy, Potter. That wasn't a short drop you took."

"What happened?" he asked. "Where's Ron?"

"Everything's fine," Kingsley said, patting Harry's shoulder. "Bloke tried to create a distraction by blowing the stairs out from under you. You got pretty banged up and both your legs were broken when we brought you in."

"And Ron...?"

Something seemed off in Kingsley's expression, but he said just as calmly as ever, "He's been placed in a private room for now. I already notified Molly and Arthur, they should be here by now."

Harry found himself breathing a little easier at that, and he tried to shake the sleep out of his head. "How did the rest of the raid go?" he asked. "Did we capture anyone?"

"Eight," Kingsley said with a sigh. "Most of them idiots and wanna-bes, but with serious potential to become something worse if they'd have a chance to cohere."

"So Nott was telling the truth."

Kingsley shrugged. "Or most of it. He seems to have left out a detail or twoseems he didn't leave the Branch House on particularly friendly terms with the inhabitants. We had to move him to separate detention for his own safety last night."

That certainly explained a few things. Harry stretched his arms over his head, feeling the twinges from his wrists to his shoulders. "What about casualties?"

"About a dozen hurt, including you, none killed. We also killed two suspects resisting arrest, not countingahthe one you found upstairs."

The man Ron had killed. Harry watched Kingsley's face carefully, but it was still as dreadfully composed as ever. "Are youI mean, what are you going to do about that?"

"At the moment," Kingsley said, looking at something over Harry's head, "I don't see a reason to do anything. That may change as the investigation continues, but...."

"It was justified, Kingsley."

"I'm not questioning that." Kingsley paused. "He gave the Healers a bit of trouble, or so I've heard. They had to sedate him before they could treat him."

Harry thought of Ron's glazed eyes, the blood on the candlestick, his monotone chanting, and he cringed. _A bit of trouble_ was probably an understatement. "Where is he? What floor?"

"This one, but I don't know whether you'll be able to see him right away or not." Kingsley stepped back as Harry swung his legs off the bed and stood up, slowly, trying to stretch his sore muscles. "You're free to leave, bye the way. Healers already gave you a clean bill of health."

"Thanks," Harry said. "Erwhen do you want final reports on the raid?"

Kingsley hesitated, then smiled a bit. "How about," he said, "you take a couple of days off?"

"What?"

"You never used any vacation time you earned in training, and I can't imagine your mind's on paperwork right now." Kingsley's smiled grew wider at Harry's expression, which he imagined must be somewhere in the region of _totally gobsmacked_. "You heard me right, Potter. Report's not due until Friday. Now go on."

Harry didn't have to hear that twice.

A special ward for Aurors was maintained on the hospital's fourth floor and had emergency staff on hand at all hours, which was where Harry had awakened. It took a bit of exploration before he found the corridor where the private rooms were located, though the walk helped stretch some of the stiffness out of his legs and back. He knew he'd found the correct wing when he spotted the Weasley family clustered at the far end, looking as agitated as Harry had been most of the week. The twins were pacing in synchronization, Percy checked his watch compulsively, and Mr. Weasley kept sweeping a hand over his scalp as if he still had hair. Ginny was seated in one of the small, low chairs that lined the hallway, arms wrapped around herself, staring with wide eyes at a blank spot on the wall; next to her, Mrs. Weasley appeared to be knitting, though the thing dangling off her needles looked almost as lumpy as one of Hermione's elf hats.

Bill, who'd been leaning against a wall and tapping his foot, was to first to look up and spot him. "Harry," he called, "what the hell is going on?"

All of them looked up at him at once; Fred and George broke off pacing to march towards him, while Mrs. Weasley gave a little gasp of shock. Harry realized he was still in his uniform robes, which were dusty and a bit scorched around the edges; he hoped they couldn't see any lingering spots of blood against the dark red. The twins grabbed him by the arms and practically dragged him over to the family, almost all of whom had stood and were facing him like a sort of redheaded Inquisition.

"Er," Harry said.

"Explain," Fred said.

"Now," added George.

Mr. Weasley waved the twins off, but almost immediately grabbed Harry's shoulder himself. "Harry, Kingsley Shacklebolt said they foundthat is, he told us you hadyou being the Aurors, collectively, of coursethat"

"Yeah," Harry said, "it's true. We found him."

Mrs. Weasley let out a sort of little shriek and abruptly sat back down; Percy shook his head as if he had water in his ears and retreated a few paces with his arms folded tightly across his chest. The twins broke into genuine smiles, not their usual malicious smirks, and Mr. Weasley just blinked at him. "It's true?" he asked, sounding suddenly hoarse. "It's really true?"

"It really is," Harry said. "I saw him myself."

"How?" Bill asked. "I meanwe searched for ages. Where _was_ he?"

Harry hesitated, but he supposed he couldn't withhold the truth forever, no matter how uncomfortable. "He was being held captive by Dark wizards," he explained, then hedged, "I don't really know the details yet. A suspect traded information for a lighter sentence, and we raided this house..."

"How long have you known about this?" George asked suspiciously.

Harry cringed again, but admitted, "About a week."

"A week?" Fred asked. "Harry, you prat, you knew _last_ _week_ and you didn't say anything?"

"I didn't want to get your hopes up," Harry muttered. "If nothing came of it"

He heard someone running along the cross corridor and automatically turned towards the noise. Hermione burst around the corner, eyes wide and face very pale: her hair hung in an uncombed tangle around her face and her cloak was fastened somewhere under her ear. She stopped short when she saw Harry and the Weasleys. "Is it true?" she asked, breathing heavily. "Is he here?"

When no one else moved for a moment, Harry nodded.

Hermione stared at him for a moment before shouting "Oh, _Harry!"_ and with no more notice than that she flung herself onto him, heedless of the state of his robes. He automatically embraced her to keep her from falling. Over he shoulder he saw Neville come around the corner with a blank expression: he stopped a few yards away, hands stuffed in his pockets, without saying a word.

"Is he all right?" Mrs. Weasley asked, drawing Harry's attention back to the conversation in progress. "Was Ron all right when you saw him?"

"Erm." He thought again of Ron's face in the wavering wandlight. "I really didn't get a good look at him. We were, y'know, in a hurry."

"The Healers won't let us see him," Mr. Weasley explained, wiping his glasses with the corner of his sleeve. "They keep telling us to wait but they won't let us see him."

As if on cue, a young man in green robes slipped out of one of the rooms and cleared his throat. "Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes?" said five voices at once. The Healer's eyes bugged out.

Mr. Weasley coughed and stepped forward. "That's me, I mean, I'm Ronald father. Is he, ah?"

"He's sleeping right now," the Healer said. "We've done all we can for the time being."

"Can we see him?" Mrs. Weasley asked. "Just for a moment?"

The Healer hesitated. "We gave him a fairly strong sleeping potion, so he won't wake up, but it'll have to be a short visit." He glanced nervously at the mob surrounding him. "And, er, no more than three at a time."

"That's fine, that's fine." Mr. Weasley took his wife's hand as he helped her up, then turned to Harry. "Would you like to come in with us, Harry?"

He tried to disentangle himself from Hermione, stepping away. "NoI mean, I saw him last night already"

"Oh, go on," Hermione said thickly. "You're the one that rescued him."

"I had lots of help," Harry muttered.

One of the twins pushed his shoulder, though, and Harry found himself stepping into Ron's room. He wasn't certain what he was expectingleather straps and a muzzle, perhaps, the way Kingsley had spokenbut the bed that nearly filled the tiny space seemed no different from any other hospital bed he'd ever seen. They had even dressed Ron in the ubiquitous blue striped pajamas, which hid his shocking thinness, and they had cleaned him up and washed his hair and beard. Even the long scar on his face seemed less prominent than it had in the darkness. His hands, which rested on top of the blanket, were swaddled in bandages that disappeared into his sleeves.

"Are you his parents?" a female Healer asked quietly, looking up from a clipboard while her quill continued to write.

Mr. Weasley nodded. "Is he going to be all right?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

The Healer paused for a moment, then nodded slowly. "He's in very poor physical condition right now," she explained. "He's dehydrated, severely underweight and he had multiple infections...we've treated those, and we're taking steps to reduce some of the other scarring. The Aurors tell me he was injured slightly during evacuation, but those are incidental right now. He'll probably have to stay with us for several days."

"What happened to his hands?" Harry asked.

The Healer blinked at him. "I'm sorry, and you are...?"

"A friend of the family," Mr. Weasley said quickly.

"Harry Potter," Harry said.

While he hated trading on the power of his name, it did get the reaction he wanted: the Healer's whole demeanor changed very quickly. "His handsof course. He had two broken fingers when he came in, but it appears his hands and wrists have beenerdamaged more than once, without proper treatment. His knees as well. There's some serious damage to the soft tissues around the joints, and it was making it difficult to heal the breaks the usual way, so we're regrowing the bones from scratch." She paused. "There may be some permanent impairment, particularly to his right handthat one appeared to have suffered the worst damage."

"What does that mean?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a whisper.

The Healer sighed. "Possibly nothing. Possibly, he may have some difficulty with fine motor movements in the future. We'll have to examine him when we wakes up and the Skele-Gro has taken effect." She paused. "I'll be honest, it may affect his ability to do magic, if he's right-handed."

Harry's stomach curled, and he looked again at Ron's sleeping face. If they had found him sooner, if they had rescued him years ago...but it was no use kicking himself for something he couldn't have known. As far as he knew, he couldn't have known it. There were still an awful lot of unanswered questions about the situation, but he was suddenly far too tired to dwell on them.

He squeezed Ron's shoulder, and Ron's eyelids twitched, but true to the other Healer's word he didn't wake up. "I'll be back later," Harry whispered, and slipped out of the room while the Weasleys continued talking to the female Healer. He didn't linger any further and barely made eye contact with anyone but Neville, who had finally joined the others waiting in the corridor. He stood a step behind Hermione, awkwardly patting her shoulder, and Harry couldn't read the expression on his face.

-/--/--/-

 

Harry came back the next morning after the first good night (day, really) of sleep he'd had in ages. Despite the agonized wondering of the past few days, it still felt strange to think about going to visit Ron in the hospitalto think of Ron being _back,_ for real, not just a fantasy. Harry paused half-dressed to look at the only photograph on his nightstand, an old picture from about sixth year or so. Most of the time he kept it flipped face-down, unable to bear looking at it even though he couldn't bring himself to put it away: it wasn't a particularly significant scene, just himself, Ron, Ginny and Hermione sitting around a table in the Gryffindor common room, goofing off. He wasn't even sure who had taken it. He watched the photographic figures smile and tease one another, and felt a sudden burst of something warm and light in his chestoptimism. He left the picture standing face-up.

On the way to Ron's room he ran into Bill coming the opposite direction. "Hey," Bill said with a smile. "You're looking a sight better than yesterday."

"I'm not sure whether that's a compliment," Harry said. "Is he awake?"

"Nah, they gave him some more sleeping potion last nightthough, I dunno, it might be wearing off soon. I was just going to grab a cup of tea and come back downMum made me promise he wouldn't wake up alone."

"I'll sit with him," Harry said. "Go on, get your tea."

"Anything for you?"

"Nah, just ate."

At some point in the previous twenty-four hours, Mrs. Weasley had left her mark on Ron's room: the massed ranks of potion bottles on the nightstand were dwarfed by a vase of daffodils (Neville's breed, most likely) and a Chudley-orange afghan covered the bottom third of the bed. Ron's hands were no longer in bandages and he lay a little more naturally in the blankets, a little more comfortable-looking. Harry sat down carefully in the small chair next to the bed, which was still warm from Bill's body heat, and for a few moments just watched Ron's chest rise and fall.

That rise and fall quickly stuttered, however, and after a few moments Ron's eyes flicked open. He blinked muzzily for a few moments, looking around with a deeply furrowed brow until he spotted his visitor. "Harry?" he croaked.

"Right here, mate," Harry said, leaning forward a bit.

Ron took a deep breath and looked about the room again; he reached out and touched the vase of daffodils as if he expected it to shatter any moment. "I...is this the hospital?"

"Yeah," Harry said.

"This is real?"

Ron looked at him when he said it, deeply earnest in a way that made Harry's chest tighten. "Yeah, mate," Harry said. "It's all real."

Ron blinked a few times and let his head drop back onto the pillows "I'm out," he said softly, as if he were testing the weight of the words. "I'm free."

And then he smiled, a familiar and brilliant grin that seemed to light up the whole room. Harry swallowed a sudden inexplicable lump in his throat and smiled, too. "We've missed you."

Bill came back with his teacup, and Ron leapt into a sitting position, eye fixing on the door; his wrists popped loudly as he braced himself. "Hey!" Bill said with a grin, setting the teacup aside. "Welcome back to the land of the living, little brother."

Ron flinched when Bill gave him a warm slap on the back, but still grinned up a little shyly. "Hey," he said.

"That's all you've got to say to me?" Bill said. "Well, I _suppose_ you have an excuse..." He conjured his own chair and dropped down next to the bed, still smiling. "I mean it, though. Welcome back."

"Thanks," Ron said. "Er, how long have I been here?" he asked.

"Just a couple of daysdon't you remember?"

"Er...sort of." His grin slipped. "It's sort of...fuzzy, though. Like a long nightmare."

"Do you remember Tonks and me?" Harry asked. "And walking down the stairs?"

Ron nodded slowly. "And you found?" he glanced at Harry with fear in his eyes, and in that moment Harry knew that Ron remembered exactly what he'd done.

"We found you," Harry said, meeting Ron's eyes, "and got you out. Or tried, anyway. I don't remember anything after the stairs went."

Ron blinked at Harry and swallowed hard, but if Bill noticed anything significant about the exchange he didn't react to it. "Tell you what," he said, "I'll go let Mum know you're awake and she and Dad can come see you. They can even bring Jack around for you to meet."

"Jack?"

"Your nephew."

Ron's eyes bulged for a moment. "Mywhat? You and Fleur had a baby?"

"Well, she did most of the actual work involved..."

Ron shifted up higher in the pillows and made a face. "Very funny. How old...?"

"Just about a year now." Bill's face glowed with fatherly pride as he added, "He's a little monster."

Ron chuckled weakly. "Dunno if I want to meet him or not."

"If he'd not napping I'll have Mum bring him round. You've got an awful lot of catching up to do."

Ron watched Bill leave with a wistful expression. "How long's it been?" he asked Harry. "I mean, what's the date?"

"Twenty-sixth September, 2001," Harry said.

Ron nodded, not looking particularly disturbed. "That's about what I would've guessed," he said. "Based on the weather, at least. Almost four winters."

There was a moment of silence; Ron pulled up the afghan and examined it, while Harry watched Ron's hands move. They were lined with scars, and his fingers still didn't look quite straightthe last joint of his right ring finger took a perceptible jog to the outside. But they didn't seem to be causing him any discomfort, and he wondered if the injuries were so old he no longer felt them.

"Thanks," Ron said suddenly. "For not...saying anything."

"Who was he?" Harry asked.

Ron stared at the pattern of loops in the afghan, "Rodolphus Lestrange."

Harry swallowed, thinking back to a few things Nott had said. Had they been in that manky little house the whole time, and no one noticed? Had they really been in such easy reach? "We looked for you," he told Ron, the words practically bursting out. "When they took you. We looked...well, we _thought_ we looked everywhere. We looked everywhere we knew at the time."

"How'd you find me now?" Ron asked, and he listened while Harry explained quickly about Nott and the investigation. "Bloody hell. Reckon I should send him a thank-you note?"

Harry shrugged. "He probably saved himself a decade in Azkaban by talking. I wouldn't worry about it." Ron nodded, and Harry braced himself to ask the most nagging question. "Ron...were you there, the entire time?"

Ron's shoulders seem to fold in on themselves, and his head hunched a bit, hiding his face behind a tangle of hair. "I don't know where they took me first," he said quietly. "It had some kind of dungeon. For a while I thought I was just, I dunno, bait or somethingthey were going to try to blackmail Dad or lure you into some kind of trap or something.

"But then LestrangeBellatrixshowed up, and started questioning me. Wanted to know stuff about you, about the Orderbut of course, I wasn't talking. I think it made her angry..." He paused, and when he resumed his voice was a low monotone. "She got angry and then she got careless. I got hold of her wand, hexed her and tried to escape. I didn't make it.

"The next thing I remember is Lestrangeher husbandshowing up in the cell. He told me that his wife was dead and somehow that was my fault."

"It wasn't," Harry said. "I meanas far I ever heard, she was killed by Aurors."

Ron shrugged. "I dunno. He just told me that it was my fault, and so I would have to replace her. Not like that" he must've caught sight of Harry's expression. "He never triedthat. But I reckon I was his favorite toy. He took me everywhere he ran to, over the years. Didn't want to give up his prize possession.

There was a blankness in Ron's voice, a _lack_ of anger that made Harry's chest hurt. "I'm sorry," He said.

"'S not your fault," Ron mumbled, looking away.

"I know, I just" There were no words to express what he was feeling, the anger and disgust and a kind of grief. "I'm still sorry."

"You got me out of there, though." Ron peeked up through his fringe with a ghost of a smile. "Reckon that makes us even, doesn't it?"

Harry tipped an imaginary cap. "Just doing my job."

The door banged open again, and this time Ron really jumped, his head whipping around so fast Harry was surprised it didn't pop off. Hermione appeared with shining eyes and a thick leather book, and immediately bounced up to Ron with a grin. "Oh, good, you're awake, I was hoping you would be." She stoppedpractically skiddedat the edge of Ron's bed, and for a heavy moment they just looked at one another. "Erm. Welcome back."

"Hi," Ron said, a touch breathlessly, though Harry couldn't tell if it was from the shock the door or of seeing Hermione. He was more than a bit surprised himself. She was wearing the snug-fitting cardigan she normally only pulled out for certain semi-formal parties and he could've sworn she'd put on make-up. She blushed a bit, and then threw her arms around Ron's neck and squeezed. Ron squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, going rigid and still under the sudden onslaught. Hermione must've sensed it, because she released him almost immediately.

"I've brought you something," she said hesitantly, holding out the book. "I thoughtwell, you've got an awful lot of catching up to do, so perhaps it'll be a bit less of a shock if you have, you know, a bit of a warning."

"Bill said he might bring around a little monster named Jack," Ron said. Harry noted he was scooting subtly away from Hermione's side of the bed; Hermione seemed to take it as an invitation perch on the edge of the mattress, rather than take Bill's empty chair.

"I've got his baby picture in here somewhere," she explained, thumbing through the pages. "I have to go back to work this afternoon, but maybe Harry or your parents can explain the rest of the pictures. Well," she glanced over at Harry, "your parents probably can."

That stung. Ron was looking at him oddly. "Where's Neville at?" Harry asked pointedly. "I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."

Hermione's blush deepened. "He's, erm, busy," she said. "He had to go into the greenhouse early this morning for...something."

Ron raised his eyebrows at her. "Neville?" he asked.

"Yes," Hermione said. She picked at the binding of the scrapbook. "Neville and I...we've been dating for a couple of years."

Harry thought it was amazing how much could be communicated by a short soft "Oh."

When neither of them spoke for a minuteHermione looked at her hands and Ron looked at his feetHarry cleared his throat and flipped open the scrapbook. "What sort of pictures did you put in here?" He asked.

"Oh," Hermione said, "just a few things. I threw it together in a bit of a hurry."

The first two pages were full the _Daily Prophet's_ headline the day after he killed Voldemort, and Harry winced. "Did you have to include that?"

Ron reached out and traced the paper, which was getting a bit yellow, running his finger over the date and the headline. "I dunno, mate, that's a pretty good picture of you," he said vaguely. The photographic Harry, in spite of the crease through his middle (or perhaps because of it) made a rude gesture, and Ron's smile reappeared. "Noscratch that, a _really_ good picture."

"I was dead on my feet," he muttered. "And I'd justI didn't feel particularly heroic at the time."

Hermione tisked at him. "If you hadn't snuck off on us, you might've had someone to fend off the journalists for you."

"If I hadn't snuck off they'd have attacked Hogwarts, before any of us woke up," Harry shot back.

Ron looked at them both, blinking with a brow furrowed. "From the beginning?" he asked.

They took turns telling the story and correcting each other, occasionally searching through the scrapbook for evidence. It really was quite thorough, no matter what Hermione saidshe'd never have tolerated anything less. Ron listened and usually laughed in the right spots, but he didn't ask many questions or make any comments. When the Weasleys returnedthree generations in towthere was another round of greetings and stiff, one-sided hugs until one of the Healers irritably reminded them of the three-visitor rule that was still technically in force.

"Surely the baby doesn't count," Mrs. Weasley, clutching Jack on her hip. "He's only a little thing."

"That still makes four," the Healer said, staring pointedly at Harry, Hermione and Bill.

Hermione stood and gathered her purse up. "Don't worry," she said, "I've been here for ages, I can goin fact, I probably should've been back at the office hours ago."

"Thanks," Ron said quietly. "For the scrapbook, I mean."

Hermione's cheeks colored again, and she smiled at him, but he didn't look up from the pages. "You're welcome," she said, and hugged him again. Again he closed his eyes and held his breath, but he also clumsily patted her hand with his. Hermione backed out of the room, not taking her eyes off of him until she was out of the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry visited Ron every day the rest of the week, though they never again had time to talk alone. The three-visitor rule remained in force, Jack excepted, which lead to a complicated dance of people swapping places so that everyone could get in for at least a few minutes at a time. Hermione visited just as often as Harry, if not more so; Neville occasionally tagged alone, always a step or two behind her, and while he was friendly enough with everyone he didn't seem to have much to say to Ron, and never lingered long.

As the days passed Ron seemed to put a bit of flesh on his bones, but Harry also noticed that he talked less and fidgeted more. He chalked it up to shockRon had missed three years of life, and his family was more than eager to catch him up on it, in massive detail. Hermione's scrapbook was followed by the Weasley Wizard's Wheezes autumn catalogue, the revised millennial edition of _Flying with the Cannons,_ and Mrs. Weasley's photo album. That leather-bound monstrosity was the size of a telephone directory, and if it hadn't been bewitched to hold extra pages it probably would've been as thick as Harry was tall. It served as a sort of backdrop of conversation, laying sprawled across the afghan as the stories and conversation drifted from topic to topic and only occasionally referenced the pictures that were actually on the page. Ron more often than not looked bewildered by the oral onslaught, but he did usually force a smile, and that seemed all the encouragement the others needed to keep going.

Ron did seem instantly fond of Jack, however. In fact, he often openly ignored anyone else in the room in favor of watching Jack play at the foot of the bed. Jack, for his part, liked to tug on Ron's shaggy hair and beard and babble at length.

"I think he's taken with you," Bill said dryly, as Jack rattled off a long stream of nonsense and bopped Ron in the face with a teddy bear.

"He's chatty," Ron said mildly.

"'E is not saying many words yet," Fleur said, "but 'Ermione says zat it normal, when babies learn two languages. _C'est vrai, mon petit chou?"_

"Maman," Jack said, and blew a raspberry.

On the last day of the month, the weather was breezy and clear, and the Healers finally gave Ron a clean bill of health. He still looked too thin in Harry's eyes, but the same chubby woman who had spoken to them the morning after the raid said it just needed time. "We can't fix everything in a trice, even with magic," she said, and smiled at Ron. "A good diet and regular exercise ought to sort you right out in due time."

"Does this mean he can come home?" Mrs. Weasley asked eagerly.

The Healer nodded, and Mrs. Weasley threw her arms around Ron so suddenly he gasped and went rigid in her grasp. "Did you hear that, dear? Home! I'll make you your favorite dinner, of courseis something the matter?"

She pulled back, and Harry saw that Ron had gone rather pale, but he swallowed and forced a smile. "'M fine," he said distinctly.

Mrs. Weasley didn't look convinced, but she patted him on the shoulder, eliciting a bit of a twitch. "Well. You'd better get some rest, if you'll be going home tomorrow. We'll have to get your room ready, and there's so much to cook..."

On Sunday afternoon Harry Apparated straight to the Burrow, having been told that Mr. Weasley would be bringing Ron straight there from the hospital. He found Fred and George hanging a flashing banner in the garden that read WELCOME HOME in writhing cursive, while Mrs. Weasley tried to supervise a massive meal being cooked by Ginny, Fleur, and for some reason, Neville. Hermione paced the garden a great deal and fiddled with a clutch of garishly colored balloons tied to a tree; Harry noticed she was wearing make-up again, and a skirt with a rather daring slit up one side.

"All right?" he asked her.

She nodded quickly. "Oh, yes, thank you."

"I didn't know Neville could cook."

Her lips compressed into a thin line. "He told Molly he learned it from his gran's house-elf."

_And what did he tell you?_ Harry almost asked, but at the sound of Apparation he rushed around the corner. Ron and Mr. Weasley had appeared in the center of the garden, and Ron was looking around as if...well, as if he hadn't seen the sun in three years. He was wearing jeans and a dark jumper that hung loose around the collar but rode up his wrists a few inches, and he was standing up straight, not hobbling as he had at the Branch House. His whole posture was very stiff, and he pulled away from his father's grasp almost immediately. For a moment, it was rather like one of Harry's silly fantasies come to life: Ron, battered but free, and finally home.

The image was shattered by the twins, who immediately grabbed Ron into a fierce double hug. Bill was the next, and then Ginny racing outside with flour all down her front, and soon Ron was being passed from arm to arm all around the garden, as if they all hadn't been visiting him every day for the past week. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, and Harry bumped shoulders and trod on toes as he tried to keep Ron in sight, waiting for his own turn to shake hands and really, _really_ welcome him back.

"It's good to have you _home_ again"

"have to start feeding you up a bit"

"good to be back?"

"Just like old times, isn't it?"

"It's good to have you back, mate"

"eager to get back to the way things were?"

"Ron? You okay?"

George stepped away from Ron, but held his shoulders firmly, frowning. Ron's face had gone alarmingly white, and rather than holding his breath as he had in the hospital, he was breathing heavily, almost panting. The wide grin he'd been wearing since he arrived had slipped into a disturbing grimace. "Ron?" Harry asked, touching his shoulder.

Ron shrugged violently, shaking off both Harry and George, and took a large step back that bumped him smack dab into Percy. He spun and peered around, eyes flicking frantically from face to face. Mrs. Weasley noticed him and cried out. "Ron, dear, what's the matter?"

"I'm fine," he said hoarsely, and started rubbing the back of his neck. His mum sidled past Percy and reached for him. Ron leapt out of reach. "I said I'm _fine!"_

Everyone was staring at him, now, and he began backing up until he ran into a tree. Then he suddenly dropped into a crouch and wrapped his arms around himself, still panting as if he'd just run a mile but shivering, too, though the weather was still warm. Harry automatically stepped forward, but Neville was suddenly at his shoulder, holding him back.

"No," Neville said. "Let me." He took a few steps towards Ron, though he stayed well back, and said slowly, "You want to go inside, mate?"

"I'm fine," Ron said again, though he made another swipe at his neck with his fingernails. Harry suddenly remembered the rough leather collar, and his stomach lurched. "I just...I just need to catch my breath."

"Chair's a lot more comfortable than a tree root for that."

Ron looked up at Neville, and Harry thought he read gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks," Ron sighed, and then slowly uncurled himself from the ground. His eyes flicked to Harry, and then over his shoulder, but otherwise he looked at the ground as he followed Neville into the house.

"What the hell was that about?" Fred asked once the back door had shut.

"It's stress," Hermione said practically in Harry's ear; he turned around to find her standing very close behind him. Her voice seemed a bit higher than usual. "It's...I suppose it must've been a bit overwhelming for him, coming home and then all of us jumping on him at once like that."

"Well," Mrs. Weasley said after an uncomfortable pause, "dinner won't be finished for hours, he'll have plenty of time to get himself sorted. Come along, Ginny, we don't want the potatoes to burn..."

The mood had deflated like a punctured balloon, and slowly everyone filtered inside to wait for dinner. Neville met them in the living room, still looking peculiarly calm about the whole situation. "He's in the parlor," he told them. "I said someone would knock when dinner was ready."

"Thank you, Neville," Hermione said, stepping towards him. "You did wonderfully." Neville shrugged without really looking at her.

"How'd you know what to do, anyway?" Harry asked.

"My mum has panic attacks like that," he said simply. "Usually when she's startled. The Healers'll normally just slap a calming charm on her and drag her back to bed, but..." He shrugged again, and went back into the kitchen. Hermione made a small, frustrated noise, but didn't follow him.

Fleur gave up on trying to cook and hold Jack on her hip at the same time, and started chatting with him in French near the fire. Conversation slowly went back to normal, but Harry found his thoughts wandering. He'd seen Ron in that house, seen the scars that climbed his body like ivy, heard the Healer talk about the broken bones, but somehow hadn't made the connectionRon had spent three years in the hands of a professional sadist. Why hadn't he said anything, warned the others that something like this might happen? Why hadn't he realized it himself? Why had it been Neville, who'd been so distant all week, coming to the rescue, instead of him?

These thoughts kept Harry busy until Ron reappeared over an hour later with hunched shoulders and a tight smile. Even that faded at the obviously hesitant reactions of his family: Bill started to get out of his seat but paused halfway, and George actually stood up but didn't move any closer. "Sorry," Ron said softly, retreating a step.

Harry scooted over a bit on the couch and slapped the back of it. "Come on, mate, I saved you a seat."

Ron practically jumped into place next to him, but his closed-off posture remained. Bill cleared his throat. "All right now?" he asked with a mechanical casualness.

"Yeah," Ron said too quickly. "Yeah, I'm good."

"That's good."

Jack toddled over to Ron and solemnly offered him the toy hippogriff he'd been playing with. Ron stared at him for a moment, then tried to take the toy. Jack pulled it back, then held it out again. "Er. 'S a good toy," Ron said. "Very nice."

Jack grinned, apparently satisfied, then sat down abruptly and resumed whatever private game he had been playing. The display seemed to break the ice, and slowly the conversation restarted, though Ron stayed quiet and withdrawn. Harry tried offering an encouraging smile a few times, but Ron never acknowledged it; instead he watched Jack with an expression that betrayed nothing. It was a bit of a relief when Mrs. Weasley finally called them all to dinner.

Even the expanded kitchen was tight quarters when everyone was present and there was a great deal of squeezing and joggling going on. Mrs. Weasley tried to bring out an old, decrepit high chair for Jack, but it simply wouldn't fit, and Fleur ended up trying to sit him in her lap again. Ron's eyes bugged a bit at whole circus, but he somehow wedged himself into the chair nearest the door, between Ginny and Fred. Harry had to move further down, squeezing past Percy and Penny to grab the first open seat next to Hermione. He popped up again when Neville appeared, carrying the last of the side dishes. "Sorry, I'll"

"No," Neville said mildly, "it's okay." He deposited a vat of glazed carrots on the table and squeezed down the other side to sit across from Harry. Hermione made a great show of arranging her serviette in her lap as if she hadn't noticed the exchange at all.

The bulk of the meal was, as usual, a loud and chaotic affair, with food and conversation flying fast and thick, but Harry found that Mr. Weasley's anecdote about the Obliviators and the Pakistani Muggle didn't particularly hold his attention. Ron kept his head down and ate quickly and methodically; he'd always been a passionate eater, but now Harry wondered if he was actually taking the time to chew. He also kept one arm curled around his plate for half the meal, until Fleur said "Ronald, your elbow iz in my haricots," in what she probably thought was a friendly, teasing sort of way.

Ron squirmed and quickly pulled his arm back; he tried to scoot further to the other side and nearly dumped his plate into Ginny's lap. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's fine," Ginny said, but that didn't seem to assuage Ron's mood. He ate more slowly, with his free hand in his lap and when his mum piled his plate second helpings of everything within reach, he positively cringed.

The second helpings were largely untouched when a rather red-faced Mr. Weasley took up his wineglass and stood. "I'd like to propose a toast," he said, (which sent Ginny and the twins groaning almost immediately), "first of allwe never could've expected the good fortune that has brought Ron back to us. I think I speak for everyone when I say this is truly one of the happiest days of my life. To Ron!"

Everyone echoed the toast except for the toastee, who slumped in his chair with a garishly fake grin, eyes still on his food.

"And secondly" Mr. Weasley had to wait for the twins to finish chugging their wine and pouring themselves new glasses. "Secondly, I know full well that this day never would've come if it weren't for the help of the Aurors. Harry, I want to thank you" Mr. Weasley bent over to shake Harry's hand, and Harry wondered how many glasses of wine he'd already had, "thank you deeply, for bringing me back my son."

"I was just doing my job," Harry muttered, feeling his face go red.

"To Harry!" Mr. Weasley said dramatically, before sitting down, and this toast was echoed with slightly less enthusiasm, except by the twins, who weren't going to pass up an opportunity to once again drain their glasses. Hermione patted Harry's arm in a sympathetic way.

Mrs. Weasley vanished into the kitchen for a moment, then reappeared with a chocolate cake of epic proportions. It had at least three tiers, the top and sides were studded with color-changing jimmies of various sizes, and "WELCOME BACK RON" was piped on the top in thick glowing ribbons of icing. "Who wants a slice?" she asked cheerfully. "One of the guest of honor, of course"

"Um," Ron said, "I need toerexcuse me, I'll just beer. Back in a bit."

"Oh, of course"

Ron was out of the room like a shot. Mrs. Weasley frowned at the pile of food he'd left behind, but placed a massive slice of cake at his place anyway.

Harry didn't have enough room left for much dessert, and his mind wandered as he picked at his cake. It took several minutes before he noticed that Ron was taking an awful long time in the toilet; Ginny was actually the first to bring it up. "D'you think he's all right?" she asked.

Mrs. Weasley frowned. "He did look a bit peaky."

"I'll find him," Harry said, though he had to squeeze around past half the family to get to the door. It was stuffy in the kitchen anyway, and he could use the stretch of his legs.

The toilet on the ground floor was empty and dark, but on a sudden hunch he couldn't quite explain, Harry jogged upstairs to check the one across from the twins' old bedroom. That door was locked. "Ron?" Harry called, knocking. "You okay in there?"

Something indistinct came back out through the door; Harry was almost positive it was some variation on "I'm fine." But then he heard the very distinct sound of gagging, and on impulse, he charmed the door open and peeked inside.

Ron was bent over the toilet, retching violently. Most of his dinner appeared to have already left his stomach whence it came. "What' the matter?" Harry asked, crouching down next to him.

Ron shook his head and shifted away, grabbing a handful of toilet paper to wipe his mouth with. "Fine," he croaked.

"The hell you are"

"I just," Ron sat back and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "It's nothing. It's stupid."

"D'you think you just ate too fast or something?"

"No," Ron said. "I just...can't."

"Can't what?"

"They were all _looking_ at me."

Ron looked up at him, red-faced and pleading, and Harry's stomach roiled again. "Maybe...er," Harry said helplessly. "Maybe you're just...er...I mean, it's been a pretty mad day, yeah? Got a lot on your mind."

Ron sighed and looked away. "Yeah. Sure."

"Ron." Harry hesitantly touched his wrist when he didn't look up; Ron recoiled. "Ron, look. It's going to take you a while to get used to...to things again, all right? The Healer said it'd take time. Don't worry about it."

Ron nodded slowly, then looked up again through his shaggy fringe. "Don't tell anyone," he said. "Please."

Harry hesitated. "They're wondering where you are..."

"They're going to freak out about it."

He remembered the way the others had hesitated to even touch him after his panic attack, and that decided him. There was no need to embarrass Ron any further; covering for him just this once wouldn't hurt anyone. "Okay," he said. "We'll just say...er...you were looking at pictures or something."

"Pictures?"

"Your mum hung a bunch of new ones, didn't you notice?" Harry flushed the toilet and transfigured one of Mrs. Weasley's dusty decorative soaps into an orange plastic toothbrush. He offered Ron his hand. "Come on, come back down before they start hunting after me, too."

Ron hesitated, then grabbed Harry's wrist and used the leverage to pull himself up. "Thanks," he said.

"No problem." Ron's grip lingered, and Harry looked into the shadowed blue eyes. "You're welcome."

-/--/--/-

 

On Monday Harry returned to the Burrow for a visit; Kingsley had put him back on the middle surveillance shift, which left him ample time in the late morning for a quick check on his friend. He found Ron sitting in the kitchen with a sheet wrapped around his neck while Mrs. Weasley endeavored to trim his hair.

"...feel much better when you're cleaned up, I'm sure of it," she was said. "Oh, hello, Harry! Are you on your lunch?"

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley. I haven't gone in yet, I'm working late shifts again. Hey, Ron."

Ron didn't respond. A good five or six inches of his hair was already scattered in clumps on the kitchen floor, and Mrs. Weasley was clipping around the front, shearing away most of his ragged fringe. Ron flinched at every _snick_ of the scissors, which were level with his squeezed-shut eyes. "Do stop squirming, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, "I'll never get it even..."

But Ron suddenly stood up and threw the sheet off, tangling his arms briefly. "'Salright," he said briskly. "That's short enough."

"But it's all in your eyes, dear," she said in the same tone she still used to nag Bill about his ponytail.

"I don't mind." Ron rubbed the back of neck, and Harry tried to tell himself it was just itching from the haircut. "I, um, I'm going to look at it upstairs."

"Why not just use the mirror down here?" But Ron was already out of the room, and they heard his feet bounding up the stairs. "Honestly," Mrs. Weasley, said, flicking her wand at the scattered hair and banishing it all into the bin. "I haven't had that much trouble giving him a haircut since he was Jack's age."

Harry wondered how she hadn't noticed Ron's pale face or rapid breathing, but decided not to bring it up. "I didn't think it looked that bad, actually."

Mrs. Weasley just clucked her tongue. "Young men. You're all the same, like walk around looking like...like Mundungus Fletcher! You know he won't shave off that horrible beard?"

"Who, Dung?"

"No, Ron...he's going to look a right state in front of the guests, isn't he?"

Harry blinked. "Guests?"

"Whatoh!" Mrs. Weasley pushed the chair back in and bustled into the living room. "Come here, I'll show you...I thought Ron might like to see some of his old friends, you know, from school and such."

She handed him a thick parchment card, and Harry took it with mounting trepidation. _Welcome Home Party_ was printed at the top in glittering letters, and underneath was a message inviting the bearer to a barbecue on Sunday. "You really think it's a good idea?"

"Oh, it'll be lovely," she assured him. "I've already gotten most of the food and drinksand this way he'll be able to see everyone at once!"

He wondered if she had any clue that that might be a bad thing, but she seemed both enthusiastic and dead-set, so he handed back the card. "It looks like a lovely time."

"You'll be there, of course?" she asked shrewdly.

"Of course," he said quickly, and started making for the stairs. "I'll, um, I just wanted to talk to Ron for a bithe's in his old room?"

"Oh, of courseArthur and I put his things back in there yesterday morning. I'd forgotten you hadn't seen it."

Harry climbed up to Ron's old bedroom, which once again displayed the _Ronald's Room_ plaque. The door was shut, but Harry only knocked once before entering; somehow he felt that their conversation the night before had opened something between them, grantedor perhaps restoredcertain privileges of friendship. He was stopped short at the threshold, however, by the sheer amount of orange on the walls. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley appeared to have pulled all of Ron's belongings out of storage and tried to put them back exactly as they had been. It was and eerily accurate job, and stepping into the room felt like walking back in time.

Somehow that wasn't as comforting as it should've been.

Ron was sprawled facedown on the bed, face buried deep in his pillow. Harry very carefully sat down on the end of the bed, noting the way Ron's shoulders twitched at the motion of the mattress. After a few minutes, Harry said, as mildly as he could, "You're going to asphyxiate if you don't move your mouth."

Ron turned his head to the side, but otherwise didn't move.

"Your mum says you look like Dung."

"Same to her," Ron mumbled.

"I meant Mundungus."

He scratched at his cheek. "Yeah, she gave me a shaving kit last night as a welcome-home present. Reckon that's her idea of subtlety."

Harry noticed that Ron's beard did seem to be slightly better trimmed this morning, but after watching him with the scissors he thought he had a pretty good idea how far the whole shaving venture had got. "Does it, erm, bother you?" he asked. "The way the scissors were?"

Ron paused, and nodded miserably. "It just reminds me of...stuff," he said, then after a beat, "Don't tell anyone, okay?"

"'Course not." Harry paused. "Did you mum tell you about the, er"

"Barbecue?"

"Yeah."

Ron nodded. "She asked me before she started sending out invites."

He sounded about as thrilled with the prospect as Harry was, but he supposed it was a bit difficult to derail Mrs. Weasley when she got a good idea into her head. Harry didn't know exactly what to say_cheer up, maybe you won't wig out this time?_so he racked his brain for a change of topic and suddenly remembered the main reason he'd come by in the first place. "Hey, I brought you something."

Ron actually rolled partway over to look at him. "Eh?"

"Hold on." He rooted in his bag until he found the small, scratched box. "I'd say it was a better welcome-home present than a shaving kit, but then again, it's not really mine to give..."

Ron's eyes lit up when he recognized what Harry was holding. "My chess set! Where'd youdid they give it to you?"

Harry nodded. "I didn't want it," he said, feeling suddenly a bit self-conscious. "I told them to keep it, but...well." Mr. Weasley had insisted, saying _Ron would've wanted you to have it._ It seemed a bit odd to say such a thing to Ron's face, though.

Ron didn't seem perturbed; he quickly opened the box and prodded the pieces, which yawned and grumbled loudly at the sudden attention. "Have you been using it, then?" he asked, sounding for all the world like a protective parent.

"Er...well, I mean, I haven't really had anyone to play with, or time..."

But Ron was already unfolding the board and arranging it carefully on the lumpy orange bedspread. "You let them get soft," he said. "You know what that means, don't you?"

"That I shouldn't be allowed to touch them ever again?"

Ron snorted, but his eyes sparkled with genuine humor. "No, it means _you_ get to help me train them up again."

Harry made a great show out of checking his watch. "Gee, I dunno, I can't be late for workI don't think Kingsley will accept 'getting my arse kicked at chess' as an excuse."

Ron snorted. "Come on, mate, I'm three years out of practice. Doesn't that even the odds a bit?"

"They were pretty long odds to begin with"

Something banged loudly downstairs, and Harry heard Mr. Weasley call outhe must've taken an early lunch. When Harry looked back to Ron, he saw his friend's face had gone white again, and he was staring at the door with wide eyes as if something horrible were going to come barreling in at any moment. "Ron?" Harry prompted slowly.

Ron shook his head and took several quick, deep breaths. "Yeah. Sorry. Um...right. What was I doing?"

"Getting ready to kick my arse at chess," Harry said hopefully.

"Oh. Right." Ron poked his last pawns into position, but the light in his eyes had gone out again. Harry lost three consecutive games before he had to leave, but Ron barely spoke, and didn't smile again.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next few days, Ron settled into a pattern of behavior that had everyone around him on edge. He tended to skip group meals in favor of nibbling on leftovers by himself, he jumped or recoiled from the slightest touch, and he took down most of the posters from his walls to his parents' consternation. Though the weather remained good, he rarely ventured outdoors, and even then he stayed within the garden walls, lurking in the bushes or behind trees. He spent most of his time in his room, silent and alone.

It wasn't as if he had nothing better to do, either. The same day that Harry returned the chess set, Ron was coaxed down to a family dinner with the twins. "Oi, Ron," George said, "why don't you swing by the shop tomorrow? We'll show you around."

Ron shrugged silently.

"C'mon, we'll buy you the biggest sundae Fortescue sells," Fred said cajolingly. "You can even get a pick up a new wand while you're there!" That made Ron choke on whatever was in his mouth; he excused himself quickly and hadn't reappeared by the time Harry went back to work.

The next afternoon, when Bill dropped off Jack for Mrs. Weasley to watch, he invited Ron to see his and Fleur's house. "It's the Diggorys' old place," he said, "but Fleur's really fixed it up, you should see."

Ron didn't look up from the chessboard that Harry had convinced him to take outside today. "Maybe some other time," he said, checkmating Harry's king.

Even Percy got in on the act, in his own mad way. He stopped by one afternoon, ostensibly on his lunch, and sat very close to Ron on the couch; Harry watched them from the kitchen. "There's a great deal of paperwork involved with declaring someone dead, you know," Percy said.

"Er," Ron said, "I'll bet."

"There's even more to do when someone is to be undeclared, of course."

Ron bit his lip. "Right."

Percy leaned even closer, causing Ron to scoot away. "I'd be happy to help you with any of it, if you'd like."

Ron swallowed. "Um. Actually, I don't really know what to do."

"Oh, it's very simple. You just need to copies of forms 03895, 0-0845831-2, 90245-1-4-66-Fin triplicate, of course5432 Schedule A, a notarized letter from the hospital"

"You know," Ron broke in, "that soundsI mean, I'd probably screw it all up."

"Well, naturI mean, that's why I'm offering to help." Percy smiled. "It'll go far faster if we work together, don't you think?"

Ron's breathing had sped up again, and he suddenly stood. "Um. Just bring me whatever I have to sign, okay? " He fled up the stairs, and Percy blinked owlishly at his retreating back.

Matters really came to a head one long afternoon when Hermione showed up. Harry had gotten into Ron's bedroom and they were doing the _Daily Prophet_ crossword; that is, Harry sat on the floor filling in the words, while Ron read over his shoulder from the bed and suggested answers.

"Six across is 'Umbridge.'"

"Is not, wanker."

"Is too! It fits her perfectly!"

"Only in a metaphorical sense" Harry looked up when someone knocked on the bedroom door; Ron started again, and quickly scooted away from Harry. Hermione poked her head in and smiled at them both. "What're you doing here?" he asked her.

"What do you think?" she said. Harry noticed for the third time that she was wearing makeup, and her hair looked suspiciously tame. "Hello, Ron."

Ron mumbled something vague.

"How are you?" Hermione said, stepping into the room without shutting the door. "Er...what's you been up to?"

Ron, on the bed, shrugged

"Er...that's good," Hermione said. She smoothed her hands over her business robes nervously, then said, "You know, I was just thinking it would be really nice if we did something togetherjust the three of us, again. We don't have to go out or anything, I could cook something"

"You could?" Harry asked.

"and I could show you Neville's greenhouse, Ron," Hermione said, face flaming. "He's very proud of it, you might find it interesting."

Ron shrugged again and picked at the sleeve of his jumper. "Wouldn't want to put you out," he muttered.

"Oh, it would be no trouble at all," she said quickly. "I'd be delighted, and I know Harry'll comewon't you, Harry?and it'll do you good to get out"

"What's Neville think of this?" Harry asked loudly, overriding her.

Her blush deepened. "Um. Of course, he'd be there, toohe can tell you about the business, if you like"

"I thought you said it'd be just the three of us?" Harry asked.

Hermione exhaled loudly through her teeth. "Harry, may I speak to you in the hallway?" Harry raised his eyebrows at her; she glared. He set the crossword and his pencil aside and followed Hermione into the hallway, where she promptly turned on him and hissed. "Harry, you can't keep coddling him!"

_"Coddling_ him?" Harry snorted. "I'm not the one talking about him in the hall like he's a child!"

"He has to leave the house some time," she said. "It's not healthy for him to hide in here"

"It's also not healthy for him to have a bloody panic attack, is it?"

"'He's got to face his fears, Harry!"

"Don't you get it, he already has!" Harry wasn't conscious of stepping forward, but suddenly found himself bending into Hermione's face. "He's been through something I can't even _imagine_, and he's not gone stark raving mad, which is pretty damn impressive, don't you think? He's faced everything we ever feared during the war, I think he deserves a little time off."

Hermione backed away but didn't back down. "He's not relaxing, Harry, he's hiding," she snapped. "And if he doesn't learn to deal with day-to-day life again, he's going to be hiding for the rest of his life."

She shoved past him back into Ron's room and shut the doorfirmly, but short of an actual slam, for which Harry was thankful. He stomped all the way downstairs to the kitchen, mentally organizing a list of Reasons Hermione Is Very Very Wrong. Ron wasn't going to deal with _anything _until he was damn well ready, and he wasn't going to be ready until he'd had some time to get used to his freedom again. Hermione's approach was always straight to the point, find the problem and fix it, efficient as a bloody machinecouldn't she see that sometimes you just had to let things go slowly? That some things took time? That sometimes things broke and no matter how much you pushed and squeezed and forced and prodded you couldn't put them back together

"Oi!"

Harry realized he'd stomped into the kitchen; he expected Mrs. Weasley to be there, but instead Ginny was sitting at the table with a sandwich and a cup of tea. "You look like a thundercloud," she said with a frown. "Is Ron all right?"

"Ron's great," He muttered. "Hermione is off her rocker."

Ginny sighed. "She's been weird lately."

"That's an understatement." Harry considered taking his anger and his list out into the garden to pace off, but he needed to be at work shortly and he hadn't eaten lunch yet. "Where's your mum gone?"

"Took Jack to the village park to play. She left sandwiches, though."

Harry chose a sandwich and found just enough tea left in the pot for a decent cup; he took the seat next to Ginny at the table. "Have you seen Neville, by any chance?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "No...he hasn't been around since Sunday. Hermione's practically moved in, of course..."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

He shoved half his sandwich into his mouth and chewed vigorously; Ginny stirred her tea for a while, then shrugged. "Perhaps they just weren't meant to be."

"Who?"

"Hermione and Neville." She glanced at Harry, then looked back at her sandwich. "Or maybe...maybe some people just _are _meant to be and there's no helping it. Maybe some things are meant to last forever."

"Nothing lasts _forever,_" Harry said, with the distinct feeling that this had nothing to do with Hermione.

"Oh, I know that, but..." She shrugged. "Did you ever wonder how things could've been different? I mean, if Ron hadn't been captured, Hermione never would've dated Neville."

"Or maybe she and Ron would've broken up on their own, and she'd be dating Neville anyway," Harry said.

Ginny looked up at him. "You really think so?"

"I don't know. Hell, maybe Voldemort would've Transfigured us all into singing wombats and started a sideshow." He bit off another corner of sandwich and swallowed without tasting it. "There's no point in worrying about what didn't happen."

"But what if," she said, "what if...what if I'd never said those awful things to you? When Ron was captured?"

There it was. Harry chewed as an excuse not to answer for a moment. "I've told you before, Ginny, you didn't say anything that wasn't true"

"But what if I hadn't said it?" she said. "What if I hadn't been such a bintoh, don't make that face, I was." She sighed and poked at the crust of her sandwich on the plate. "I've regretting how I reacted for a long time, Harry, but since Ron came backit was stupid and immature of me and...and things have been very unpleasant around here for a very long time, with no good reason."

Harry's stomach tightened up. "You weren't the only reason things have been...weird. That I've been weird. Hell, Ron's not the only reason."

"But he's one of the big ones," she insisted. "You've spent more time here in the past few days than you have in the past few _years_, Harry. His getting captured changed everything." Her voice suddenly got softer, more timid. "And maybe...maybe his getting rescued changed it back."

There it was, then. Harry pushed the half-eaten sandwich away and tossed back his cold tea. "I don't think this is a good idea right now," he said.

"Why?" she said. "If not now, when?"

"I dunno. But...Ron." Harry scanned the room for something he could look at besides Ginny's intense eyes. "It's still weird here. He's still weird. I want to help him get, y'know, settled, before I...I mean, before we...er..."

"So when Ron is...settled," she said slowly, "do you think you'd like to try...I mean, see if we can fix things?"

She covered his hand with her slender one, and Harry bit his lip. She looked so earnest, so intense, and yes, he _had_ wondered about what might have been, but didn't she understand there was no turning back the clocknot without Time-Turnersyou couldn't just forget the past or pretend it never happened. Yeah, Harry had loved her when he was sixteen, and she had loved him back, but there were long years in the middle there where things had changed and did she really still feel the same? Was she really the same person?

Was he?

A crash upstairs caused them both to jump, and Harry jerked his hand away. He heard the feet pounding the stairs long before Hermione came into view, and before he could ask her what had happened she swept by him, red-faced, into the garden and Disapparated. An eerie silence reigned for a beat before he started up the stairs, hoping that Ron would be at least in a state suitable for talking

"Harry!" Ginny said, grabbing his sleeve. "Don't you have to be in at work soon?"

He glanced at his watch and flinched; technically, he had to be in _now_. "But"

"I'll take care of him," she said. "Go on, don't make Kingsley shout at you."

With one last glance up the echoing stairs, Harry backed down and raced into the back garden, barely remembering to grab his bag on the way.

-/--/--/-

 

Work was peaceful, thankfullyone firecall transcript all about eel husbandry, with no hind of a code or passwordbut Harry's sleep that morning was broken and disturbed. He dreamed that he was wading through a deep, fast river, trying to get to the other bank: Hermione and Ginny were there, and Ron, whole and safe and smiling Ron, waving and cajoling him on and dressed in school robes, for some reason. They were all wearing school uniforms, though they looked the same age as they were nowRon's rode far up past his ankles and wrists and Ginny's were stretched indecently over her chest. For some reason Neville was floating God-like in the sky above, saying ominous things like "It will all end in tears, I know it," but then he turned into Celestina Warbeck, and fish started jumping onto the banks and slithering away into the grass, and Harry fought the currentstruggled with the cold muddy water pooling around his chest and tugging at his feet, fought forward to get one hand on the grassy bank

And then he pulled himself up on the side, and he was alone. His friends had gone. The river turned to peppermint ice cream and penguins fell out of the sky.

He woke up sweating, and didn't know why.

He dragged his way through the flat in the morning, trying to shake the dream-images from his mind without really succeeding. He was much later than usual getting to the Burrow, and it took him a groggy moment to realize that something was different today. The kitchen, which was usually bustling with lunch preparations at this hour, was quiet but strangely full. Mrs. Weasley was knitting at the table, needles moving so vigorously he was surprised the yarn didn't break. Mr. Weasley was home too, earlier than usual, and toying with a cup of tea; Percy, for some reason, sat a few seats down and was filling out forms, but without his usual gusto. Hermione sat at the very end of the table with her arms crossed and her lips tight, as if she were sucking on a vinegar lolly.

"What's going on?" he asked Mrs. Weasley, who was nearest to him.

"Oh," Mrs. Weasley said, sounding snappish, "I expect you know all about it already."

"Know about what?"

"Molly," Mr. Weasley said, then sighed. "Kingsley Shacklebolt is upstairs with Ron."

"What? Why?"

_"Debriefing,"_ Mrs. Weasley said sourly.

"...Oh."

Harry dropped into the nearest chair. It made senseRon had spent three years traveling with a Dark wizard, there was a chance he'd heard or witnessed something useful. But couldn't Kingsley have waited a bit? Or at least let Harry in on it? No, of course nothe wasn't "objective" enough. But maybe there was something to be said for subjectivity when dealing with a witness who waswell_touchy_ the way Ron was. Not unstable, exactly, butif Ron couldn't bear just to be reminded of what he'd seen and endured even a little bit, how was he supposed to hold up under interrogation? With Kingsley standing over him, pressuring him, ferreting out every last minute detail no matter how personal or private or painful?

Harry leapt out of his seat and headed for the stairs. Someone always needed to be the good cop, right? "Harry, dear, where are you going?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"Upstairs," he said.

"Harry, don't," Hermione said. "Kingsley said he wanted to talk to Ron alone"

"I'm assigned to the case," he said. "It's my investigation, too."

Mr. Weasley half-rose out of his chair. "Harry, I don't think that's wise..."

"Don't think what's wise, Arthur?"

Harry spun around; Kingsley was descending the stairs casually, a short scroll tucked under his arm. He nodded at Harry, then asked again, "What don't you think is wise?"

"Never mind," Harry said quickly. "Are you finished?"

"Ron isn't feeling well," Kingsley said. "We'll have to carry on some other time."

"What do you mean, he's not feeling well?" Harry said. "What did you do to him?"

Kingsley's eyebrows rose dramatically. "Excuse me, Potter, I didn't quite hear that."

Harry didn't particularly care. "Hasn't he been through enough already without you harassing him, too?"

"Potter," Kingsley said softly, "not here, and not now."

Harry spread his arms. "Just tell me where and when."

Mrs. Weasley behind him gasped; Kingsley scowled deeply. "Harry, I don't like this any more than you do," he said quickly. "But I have a duty to my job, and if you can't wrap your head around that then I suggest you're in the wrong line of work."

"Are you firing me, then?" Harry said.

"You are giving me a very good excuse!"

Harry took a quick step backwards; Kingsley paused for a long moment, breathing deeply, then said, "I think you need another day off, Potter. I'll see you in my office first thing Monday morning." He nodded at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and without another word stepped into the Floo and vanished.

The others stared at Harry like he'd grown and extra head, and he quickly barged out the back door into the garden to pace. He cursed himself for losing his temper, and yethe glanced at the window at the top of the house. No movement. What did Kingsley mean, _Ron isn't feeling well?_ Did Ron have a stomachache? Was he curled up shaking under the bed? And how many times was he going to have to endure this until Kingsley decided he'd gotten what he wanted?

They did have a job to do, though. They _both_ did. But he'd been Ron's friend long before he'd been an Auror, and if he had to choose between the twowell

Hermione stormed out into the garden, face red. "Harry, what on earth was that about?"

"I thought it was pretty obvious," he snapped back.

"It's _obvious_ that you're being completely irrational!"

"Ron's in no fit state to sit around being interrogated for hours on end!"

"Oh, _honestly, _Harry!" she shrieked. "You nearly lost your job back there! And Ron has to testify, or how else will the people who did this to him get the punishment they deserve?"

_They already have,_ Harry thought, and almost blurted it out before he rememberedHermione didn't know. Just he, Ron and the other Aurors knew what had become of Rodolphus Lestrange, and somehow it seemed like a violation of confidence to tell anyone else. "He could've put it off," he mumbled, temper receding. "He could've waited untilyou know how he is. He needs more time!"

"How much time are you willing to give him?" she asked, exasperated.

Harry threw up his hands. He wasn't sure himself. He just knew that Ron had already suffered enoughthat he deserved to be protected, if only for a whilethat he, Harry, was _going_ to protect him, from everyone, and he'd worry later about what it would cost

Mrs. Weasley stuck her head out into the garden. "Harry? Hermione?" she asked in a wavering voice. "Ronhe's shut himself up in his room and locked the door, and he won't talk to usperhaps if one of you tried"

Hermione immediately stepped back. "I, ah, don't think he particularly wants to talk to me," she said, and looked at Harry.

He rubbed his face, suddenly more tired than ever. "I'll be up in a minute, Mrs. Weasley." When the door closed again, he glanced at Hermione's downcast face. "What did you say to each other yesterday?"

"JustI don't want to talk about it," she said, and swiped her hand across her eyes. Before Harry could tell if he was really seeing tears, she hitched up her robes and stepped away. "Sorry, II've got to find Neville." And just like that, she Disapparated.

Harry trotted up the stairs to where Percy was kneeling near the door, trying to shove a massive stack of forms underneath. "If you could just sign those," he said, sounding just as worried as his mother, "and get them back to me, I'll see that they're filedI meanRon, if you can hear me, do say something, I feel like I'm talking to a block of wood."

"Let me try," Harry said, taking the paperwork out of Percy's hands. "He, er, might talk to me."

Percy glanced at him with pursed lips, and for a moment Harry thought he saw a spark of childish resentment in his eyes; but then he stepped back and went downstairs. "Very well. Make certain those get filed with Central Records promptly or some of them will expire."

"I will," Harry said, but Percy had already flounced down the stairs with his nose in the air. Sighing, Harry sat down by the door and took a few moments to gather his thoughts. "Ron, mate? It's me."

Nothing but silence on the other side of the door.

"I know Kingsley was here. I mean, I found it, but I didn't know he was going to come until I got here. And he'd already come. Er." He drummed his fingers against the thick stack of forms. "I would've warned you if I'd known. At the very least, I'd've warned you."

Still nothing, and now Harry was getting really worried. He kneeled up and peered through the keyhole, but it was dim on the other side and his glasses mashed against his face uncomfortably. He wondered if Ron was even still in there, ora horrible thought seized him, and he drew his wand. "Ron, I'm going to come in now," he said. "Don'terdon't freak out."

The door swung open under the simplest unlocking charm, and Harry climbed to his feet and slipped inside before shutting it behind him. All the curtains and shutters were closed, letting only the meagerest light seep into the room; in the shadows, he saw the desk chair turned to face the bedthat's where Kingsley must've been sittingand on the bed, a lump that barely moved. Moving very, very slowly, he crossed the room until he could see Ron clearly, curled into an impossibly tiny ball with his arms wrapped around his head as if for protection. Harry put pressure on the mattress, slowly, and got no reaction. "Ron?"

"Mmmph."

There was something. Harry climbed around the chair and crouched down next to the bed; he could just barely see Ron's open eyes sparkling in the shadows. "Mate, talk to me," Harry said.

"Tired of talking."

"I'm sorry."

There was a muffled snort. "You didn't do anything."

"Kingsley should be sorry."

"He didn't do anything either." Ron unfolded a little bit, rolling partway onto his back and running his fingers through his hair. "I'm just...it was rough, okay? I'm fine."

"You know, you keep saying that and somehow I'm not convinced." When Ron tried to roll away completely, Harry unthinking grabbed his arm, and earned a full-body twitch in response. "Sorry."

"Bloody hell, quit _apologizing_ already," Ron growled into the pillow. "Just...just let me alone, all right?"

Harry worried a corner of form 5432, Schedule A, for a moment before an idea occurred to him. "You don't have to do this again, you know."

"'Course I do."

"I meanlook, you can write out a statement and I'll sign off on it and turn it in to Kingsley. You won't have to say anything else."

"I want to." Harry blinked, and Ron rolled over to face him again. "I want toto help, and stuff. To send those sons of bitches where they belong." He looked away again. "Not as if I'm useful for anything else..."

"That's not true!" Harry blurted, then blushed at his own vehemence. "I mean, you're notyou can'tlook, you know what I did after I killed Voldemort?"

"Got attacked by a pack of reporters, you told me in the hospital."

"I mean after that." He found himself curiously unable to look Ron in the face while he explained it; it was a more touchy-feely sort of talk than he was used to. "After I got rid of the reporters and everyoneI went away for a couple of weeks. Back to Godric's Hollow. You remember the inn there?" Ron nodded. "I stayed there under a fake name. I just walked around a lot, didn't do anything in particular. Didn't think about anything in particular. It was...sort of nice."

"What happened?"

Harry shrugged. "After about three weeks, I came back here long enough to find a flat and applied to the Aurors. Scrimgeour couldn't hire me fast enough."

"What's your point?"

Harry sighed. "After that duelafter everythingI just...needed some time to get over it. Relax or something. If I'd tried to stay and deal with everything right after I would've gone mad. And it felt good to have _nothing_ to do for a while. Until I got bored, which was sort of how I knew it was time to leave." He felt his face getting warm; he wasn't any good at this at all. "Hermione wanted to kill me," he added.

"Think she wants to kill me now," Ron mumbled, but before Harry could pursue that he said, "You reckon I just need to wait it out?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "yeah, exactlywait for a while. Get used to things being different for a while."

Ron shut his eyes for a long time, so long that Harry began to wonder if he'd just up and fallen asleep where he lay. But just when Harry was about to get up and quietly leave, Ron said, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"You don't have to stay up here if you don't want to. Go on and go to work or whatever."

Harry coughed. "I, er, actually have the day off."

"Eh?"

"Bit of short notice."

Ron blinked, then shrugged. "Whatever. I...I reckon I'd better stay up here for a little while longer."

Harry suddenly remembered the documents in his hand, and passed them to Ron. "You probably want to get a head start on signing these, it'll take you all afternoon."

"What are they?"

"Percy's paperwork."

"Oh." Ron looked around, and Harry passed him a quill from the desk. Slowly, and with a great deal of care and concentration, Ron wrote his name at the bottom of the first form: the writing was jerky and jagged, belabored-looking, and Harry was reminded again of the Healers' warning about Ron's hands. But Ron signed every paper in the stack, one at a time, and when he had finished he followed Harry downstairs for a cup of tea.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunday was the day of the "welcome home" barbecue, and the closer it got the less Harry was looking forward to it. The day before was mostly spent preparing food and moving tables back and forth between the garden and the living room as the weather witch on the wireless changed her forecast; in the evening Harry and everyone else in the house was pressed into helping clean plates and cutlery that already looked spotless, to ensure there were enough for all the guests Mrs. Weasley was expecting, which was apparently half the population of the wizarding world. The banner from the previous Sunday was resurrected and re-hung, and the twins conjured up more balloons and flying paper streamers.

Throughout all this the guest of honor remained silent and cloistered in his room, not even coming down to dinner. Mrs. Weasley looked warily up the stairs several times, but every time she ultimately frowned a bit, shrugged, and went back to her preparations with undiminishedin fact, renewedgusto.

Sunday morning, Harry knocked on Ron's door, and waited almost ten minutes before going on. Ron was sitting on his bed with his knees pulled tight against his chest, staring blankly out the window. "You get any sleep, mate?" Harry asked, noting the dark smudges under his eyes.

Ron shook his head silently and sighed.

Harry leaned against the footboard of the bed, and just the creak of old wood was sufficient to make Ron twitch. "You don't have to do this, you know," he said.

Ron shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair. "Mum'll kill me," he said raggedly. "They all want me there."

"That doesn't mean you have to do it!" Harry said. "Look, tell themtell them you're sick or something. They'll call it all off."

"No," Ron said. "If I do thatif Mum thinks I'm sick she'll just tuck me into bed and pour broth down my throat and _watch_ me." He shivered at the very thought.

"Then just say you don't want to do it!" Ron ducked his head at the sharp note in Harry's voice, and Harry took a deep breath, trying to reign himself in. "Sorry. I'm just...it's going to be a mad house down there, and I don't see any point in putting yourself through it if you don't want to."

"I'll be fine," Ron said mechanically. "I just...Hermione says I have to try, right? Try doing things?"

"Even Hermione can be wrong sometimes," Harry said.

Ron shook his head again. "I'll be fine," he said. "I just...I just need to, to calm down, and do it, you know? I can do it." He stood and started rooting through his bureau. "Got to just suck it up and do it."

Harry scowled at him, fighting the urge to yell and scream and chase all the guests away himself. Instead he took a few steps forward and touched Ron's arm lightly, in spite of the way he twitched and shied away. "Look," Harry said, "I'll be down there the whole time, all right? If you want toertake a break, I'll make something up and get you out of there."

Ron took a deep breath, held it for a few minutes, and exhaled in a rush. "Thanks," he said in a slightly steadier voice. "Thanks a lot."

"No problem."

Downstairs, Mrs. Weasley was agonizing over the last details while the twins and Bill moved the tables back into the gardennaturally the report had been wrong, and it was bright and quite warm for the second week of October. Ginny was at the furthest end of the table, eating oatmeal and reading the _Sunday Prophet;_ Harry managed to extract a cup of coffee from the kitchen and sat next to her, out of the flow of furniture. "Want to read the sports section after I'm done?" she asked.

"Er. Sure."

"How's Ron doing?"

"...not well. Don't think he slept a wink last night."

She sighed. "He hasn't beendon't suppose he's said anything to you about it, but he's been having pretty nasty nightmares."

"He has?"

She nodded. "Wakes the whole house up. He won't talk about them, though...not that that's anything new..." She passed him the paper and gave him a few minutes to check the Quidditch scores, then cleared her throat. "Not to change the subject, but...have you been thinking about it?"

"About what?"

"About what I said the other day."

Harry considered playing dumb, but decided it was unlikely to help. "Um. Sort of."

"Have you decided anything?"

He watched his coffee swirl around the cup for a bit, trying to phrase his thoughts. "You're notI mean, I've thought about it, too. What if."

"But?" she prompted.

"It's a bit pointless, isn't it?" he said, then quickly added, "not that I think you'recrap. You know what I mean. It's not like we can pretend things never happened."

"But can't we admit that we made a mistake?"

"Well, we can admit it, surebut" He rubbed his face and said softly, "Some things just don't go away because you say your sorry, Gin."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I thought you said you didn't blame me for"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what _do_ you mean?"

"I mean" He glanced fearfully at Mrs. Weasley and lowered his voice. "I mean...look, this isn't a good time to bring it up."

"That's what you said on Wednesday."

"And I meant it on Wednesday, because Ron is...he's...he needs me, all right?"

Ginny cocked an eyebrow at him. "He needs all of us right now, but that's not scaring me away."

_You're not the same,_ Harry thought, but drowned the words with a slug of coffee. "I just...I want to wait until things settle down a bit, okay?"

"And when's that going to be?" she asked.

"I don't know when!"

"Then define 'settled down!'"

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. "I...er...I mean...I mean when"

Ginny snorted and stabbed her oatmeal with her spoon. "Never mind. I get the picture."

"Ginny, wait" But she was stalking outside, loose hair streaming behind her like a column of fire. "Dammit."

"Something the matter, dear?" Mrs. Weasley called.

Harry shook his head and polished off the last of his coffee. "I'm fine."

Hermione and Neville came in through the back door just then: Hermione was not wearing makeup today, he noticed, but Neville was still walking a pace behind her and not really making eye contact with anyone. "Good morning!" Hermione called. "Good morning, Molly."

"Good morning, Hermione dear, Neville. Can you carry these bowls outside for me?"

Harry jumped up to help as she sent four or five overflowing serving dishes at Hermione with a flick of her wand. Neville caught two of them, but turned and walked outside when Hermione tried to thank him. She scowled. "Something the matter?" Harry asked softly.

"I don't know, why don't you ask Ginny? I saw her outside," she snapped, and stalked out the back door with a bowl of crisps. Harry took a deep breath, steadied the tray of cocktail sausages he'd snagged, and carried them out into the garden, where Mr. Weasley had donned a plaid apron and was cheerfully prodding a Muggle barbecue with his wand. At least, he told himself, the day could still get worse.

-/--/--/-

The guests started showing up late in the morningMrs. Weasley had apparently invited everyone from their year of Hogwarts who was still alive and out of prison, plus a few other, somewhat more random-seeming choices. Harry could understand inviting Luna Lovegood, for instance, but what on earth was Romilda Vane doing here? Or the Creevey brothers? Orhe grimacedBlaise Zabini, in a pair of dress robes that probably cost more than Harry's flat? Even if Mrs. Weasley had invited them all, why on earth had they shown up?

He got part of an answer when Mrs. Weasley asked him to help her clear off the kitchen table so people could eat inside if they chose: he picked up the newspaper Ginny had discarded and found himself looking at Ron, or at least, an old photograph of Ron from when they were in school. It was badly cropped, but he thought he saw his own arm flapping around the margin, and picture-Ron kept looking off to one side and making a peculiar face. "War hero discovered alive after three years?" he read aloud.

Neville appeared around the corner and sighed. "Found that, did you?"

"'Senior Aurors remain mum on the circumstances surrounding the return of Ronald Weasley, the decorated war hero and longtime ally of Harry Potter' What the bloody hell?"

"Nobody's been particularly careful about keeping it mum, have they?" Neville asked, gathering up extra forks and spoons. "Suppose it had to get out some times. Least it's not Rita Skeeter writing it up, eh?"

"I wish it were, we can deal with her," Harry growled. "Since when was he decorated with anything?"

"Well, 'decorated hero' sounds better than 'stupid git,' doesn't it?"

Harry's head snapped up; Ron was hanging back around the foot of the stairs, wearing a small, forced smile. He'd put on clean clothes, but he couldn't hide the dark smudges under his eyes, and he drummed his fingers nervously against the banister. Neville took the paper out of Harry's hand and offered it to him with a tight smile. "Want to have a look?"

Ron chuckled, a high and thin sound that didn't reassure Harry at all. "Sure," he said. "Might as well keep up on my publicity."

"How bad is it?" Harry asked Neville, while Ron scanned.

Neville shrugged. "They don't have any of the facts, I don't think. It mostly just talks up everything Ron did in the war, how he was your best mate and all."

That mollified Harry somewhat; at least Ron's privacy was still intact. He carefully watched his friend's face as he read the story, but Ron just skimmed for a few minutes before tossing the paper aside. "Funny stuff," he muttered, still sounding edgy.

"Everyone out there has read it," Harry warned him. "D'you still want to?"

Ron peeked around the corner through the kitchen windows, and his eyes went wide when he saw the number of people already gathered in the back garden. _Don't go out there!_ Harry screamed in his head. _Don't put yourself through that ringer! Just tell them all to piss off where they belong!_

"Come on," Neville said in a bracing voice, and clapped Ron on the back; Ron jumped and spun away. "How bad can it be?"

"Yeah," Ron said, and swallowed hard. "How bad...?"

"I'll just tell them all you're coming out," Neville said, and before Harry could protest he was out the door. Harry could faintly hear him shouting for attention.

"Last chance, mate," Harry said ominously. "I'll take the blame, if you want."

Ron shook his head fiercely. "No. No, it's just a stupid bloody party." He charged after Neville, and Harry scrambled to stay just a step behind him. Ron lingered for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, listening to the sounds of the happy partygoers; then he took a deep breath, held it, and stepped outside.

More people had arrived while Harry had been inside, and the garden was absolutely packed. And the moment they saw Ron, every started clapping and cheering and whistling for him. Harry grabbed hold of Ron's shoulder and squeezed, while Ron blinked like a dear in the headlights: then he suddenly plastered on a very big, very fake smile, and waved weakly at all his well wishers. That only provoked another round of cheers, and then Seamus Finnegan bounded up to the back stoop and shook Ron's hand with both of his, hard enough to pop it off completely. "Good to see ya, mate," he said, grinning, "good to have you back"

After that it was almost like a repeat of his homecoming last Sunday. People kept grabbing him, hugging him, shaking his hand, and Harry could feel Ron's shoulders tighten and twitch every time, could _see_ Ron's hands trembling as he shook with every idiot who came up to him and yammered into his face. Ron was breathing very loudly through his nose and never made more than one-word answers, but most people seemed more than willing to do all the talking, telling Ron how glad they were to see him alive again, how amazing it was, how much they hoped everything would go well for him. Part of Harry knew that most of them were more or less sincerethat anyone who'd lost a loved one in the war might feel a vicarious sort of sympathy for the Weasleys. But most of him was raging that nobody else seemed to notice how pale and shaky and _scared_ Ron was just to be in the midst of the crowd with all of them talking and touching and moving at once. How could they be so stupid? How could they all be so bloody   
_oblivious?_

Hermione cut through the crowd with a cup of punch, and Harry was relieved that she, at least, seemed to recognize the toll this was taking. "Thirsty?" she asked Ron, eyebrows low and tight.

He shook his head and rubbed fiercely at the back of his neck. "I need to go," he said in a choked sort of whisper.

They were the words Harry had been waiting to hear the whole time. "C'mon, let's get out of here," he said, taking Ron's elbow. Hermione set the punch aside and took Ron's other arm in hers; he twitched and shied away as if by reflex, but let them hold on and guide him away.

They barreled through the crowd, cutting off greetings and ignoring the shouts behind them"Just look at the door," Harry muttered to Ron, "look at the door and not at the people"past all the smiling stupid guests, past Mr. Weasley struggling with his Muggle barbecue pit, into the house and through the kitchen, through the living room, to the stairs

Harry braced himself when he heard footsteps coming around the corner, and Neville's voice saying, "This way, the party's around the back." He came into view suddenly, with two unfamiliar witches behind him, but paused when he saw the three of them at the stairs. "Oh, look, there he is, man of the hour!"

Harry would remember the moment later as if it had occurred in slow motion. Both the witches' eyes lit up when they saw Ron, and one of them plunged her hand into her huge, ugly handbag and drew out a massive camera. The other was suddenly holding a Quick-Quotes Quill and a roll of parchment. Before Harry could react, before he could think, the witch with the quill was saying "Hello, Moira Finch with the _Daily Prophet_" just before the photographer took a picture, blinding them all with her flash.

Ron screamed a littlethat was the only way to describe the noiseand his arm twisted out of Harry's grip. Harry got one last good look at Ron's face, his glassy, terrified eyes, and then he was bolting up the stairs, up and out of sight.

Hermione was the first one to recover her wits. "Get out," she snarled, looking as terrifying as she ever had in battle.

Moira Finch looked appalled. "I just wanted to ask a few ques"

Harry pulled his wand on her. "Get the hell out of this house," he said, "and don't you _ever_ come back." The witches backed away, and almost as an afterthought he Summoned the camera away.

"Hey," the photographer said, "you can't do that, we've a right"

Harry pried the back open, releasing a puff of fumes, and yanked the film free before tossing the machine back at her. "Now get out of here."

"The public has a right to know"

He stepped forward, wand unwavering, and they backpedaled and fled. He followed them to the front door and watched them scramble down the lane, clinging to their hats and bags; when they finally Disapparated, he tossed the exposed film into the bin and stalked back into the living room, seeing red.

Mrs. Weasley had already beaten him there. "I can't believe you would do such a thing!" she was shrieking. "Letting _those people_ into this house"

"You invited half of Britain to show up!" Neville shot back, looking uncharacteristically red in the face. "How was I supposed to know how who belonged and who didn't?"

"You could've asked," Harry snapped, and shoved his wand into his pocket before he was tempted to actually use it. "You could've asked someone instead of letting a couple of complete strangers trounce all over the house"

"Well, excuse me for not having an Auror's sense of _rabid paranoia!"_

"That's enough," Mr. Weasley said, appearing behind his wife's shoulder.

Harry ignored him and tried to seize Neville's arm; Neville shook his grip off easily. "You idiot, you _know_ better, did you really think Ron would be having a grand old time out there tonight?"

"Touch me again, Potter, and I swear I'll"

_"That's enough!"_ Mr. Weasley shot a fountain of sparked between their faces, making them both jump backwards. "This isn't accomplishing anything."

Hermione trotted down the stairs, face pinched with worry. "He's locked the door," she said. "He won't talk to me and he's locked the doorI can hear him moving around, but he won't talk to me, and I don't want to startle him by charming it open."

"I'll try talking to him later," Mr. Weasley said with a sigh. "Now, boysNeville made an honest mistake"

"It was a stupid mistake," Harry snarled.

"Harry, he couldn't have known!" Hermione snapped.

Neville smiled unpleasantly at her. "Oh, thank you, dear, what a nice surprise!"

"Though if he'd actually spent any time helping over here," she added in a nastier tone, "he might've known who was invited at who wasn't."

Neville snorted. "Sorry about that, but I didn't want to interrupt your special time with him."

Hermione's jaw dropped open, and she marched down the stairs a few steps. "How _dare_ you?"

"I'm going home," Neville announced brusquely. " Hurry up and decide, Hermione, because I'm getting sick of waiting." On that cryptic note, he marched over to the fireshouldering past the twins, who were watching with baffled expressionsand Flooed away.

Hermione watched for a moment, then burst into tears. "Dammit, dammit, DAMN IT!" she shouted, and then ran outside, into the front.

Mr. Weasley looked around, more angry than Harry had ever seen him. "Well?" he demanded. "Shall anyone else scream and run away, or can the rest of us start behaving like grown witches and wizards?"

Harry wanted to snap back with a smart remark, but bit down on it; it wasn't going to be helpful and nothing was Mr. Weasley's fault, anyway. Not really. "Ron wasn't feeling well all day," he told them all, "he's beenernervous. The crowd was getting to him."

"Why didn't he say something, then?" Mrs. Weasley asked plaintively.

Harry shrugged, and was probably a bit too harsh when he said, "He knew you all wanted him to come down."

The back door clanged shut, and Bill and Ginny came in, looking frazzled. "We told everyone Ron's gotten sick," Ginny said. "A bunch of people are already leaving."

"Better send them all off, I think," Mr. Weasley said with a sigh, and began to untie his apron. "Ron isernot himself right now."

"He'll be all right, though, won't he?" Fred asked anxiously. "I meanhe's been getting back to normal. Isn't he?"

"Depends on how you define normal," Harry snapped back, unsure why it piqued him so much.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley said warningly.

Mrs. Weasley wrung her hands and then started for the stairs. "I'm going to go check on him," she said. "He'll open the door mewon't he?"

"Molly, he probably just needs time to relax," Mr. Weasley said.

"We can't just leave him up there all alone, Arthur!"

"Give him a little while," Harry said, stepping forward so he was just barely blocking the stairs. "Let him calm down a bit on his own. He seemedernot good, when he went up there."

That only made her wring her hands more, but she retreated. "All right," she said, then a bit more firmly. "All right." Then she turned, glaring at her assembled progeny. "What are you all doing, standing about? Start cleaning up! There's food to be put away..."

Harry suppressed the urge to stay put and stand guard over the staircase and instead joined the others in wrapping up the festivities. Some of the guests were more reluctant than others to leaveSeamus in particular loitered near the food for an awfully long timebut when an army of grim-faced Weasleys started gathering up chairs and taking down the decorations, they got the hint. The twins had to chase down a few unruly streamers that seemed to be making a break for the village, and Ginny collected a half-dozen discarded handbags from various points around the garden, but with everyone working together it only took a few hours to clear away what had taken a whole day to set up.

While Mrs. Weasley was struggling to find a place for all the uneaten food, Harry took the chance to slip upstairs, unseen. It wasn't as though he had anything to say to Ronother than perhaps a promise to punch Neville in the head later, which really didn't seem constructivebut he had an inexplicable itch to see with his own eyes whether he was really okay. Or, well, as good as could be expected under the circumstances. There was no sign of life in Ron's room when Harry got upstairs, and he waited for several long moments before knocking softly on the door. "Ron, it's me," he said.

No answer.

"Everyone's gone. Well, most everyone."

Nothing.

"We're all worried about you."

Harry counted five heartbeats of silence before slowly and gently turning the knob. "I'm coming in now," he said, and pushed the door open.

The shutters and curtains were closed again, and glowed red in the late afternoon light. For a short, horrible moment, the room appeared emptythe bed was still neatly made, the closet door was shut. But then Ron said softly, "Please close the door," and Harry realized the voice was coming from the kneehole of the desk.

He shut the door behind himself and crouched down. Yes, Ron was curled up under the desk, barely visible in the darkness, with his head buried in his folded arms. "'Lo, Harry," he said, not looking up.

"Hey." Harry pushed the desk chair out of the way a bit, and sat down. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, you know, same old, same old." Ron sounded exhaustedHarry didn't blame himbut there was still something brittle in his voice, something that said that he was still to very close to the edge of panic. Harry automatically reached out to touch him, rub his shoulders or something, but stopped himself just in time. Ron noticed the gesture and cringed, but didn't say anything.

Instead they sat in silence for a few minutes before Harry asked, "D'you want me to punch Neville in the head later?"

"No."

"D'you want me to hold Neville down while _you_ punch him in the head?"

"No," Ron said, then took a deep, shaky breath. "I want to get some sleep."

Harry looked around. "Bed's that way, mate."

"I know that. I'm" Ron looked up, and his eyes looked so hollow and blank in his thin, ravaged face that Harry's heart ached. "I don't want to go to sleep _yet,"_ he finished quickly.

Harry had a hunch that wasn't what Ron had been about to say, but it didn't seem like the time or place to force anything out of him. "You need the rest, though," he pointed out. "It'll help you relax."

"Maybe," Ron said doubtfully. "Don't think I could fall asleep right now if I tried, though."

"D'you want a sleeping potion?"

Ron 's shoulders twitched, and he said "No," in the firmest voice he'd used all day.

"Why not?"

"Just...no, okay?"

Harry drummed his fingers against his knee for a few moments, thinking. Ron was too keyed up right now to sleep without a potion, he was sure, and if he didn't get some rest soon he'd just collapse on them, or perhaps worse. "What about a half-dose?" he suggested.

"Harry, I don't want a potion."

"You need the rest, mate. Please."

Ron looked at him again, with the hollow eyes, then looked away for a long time in silence. Harry was on the verge of asking again when Ron suddenly said, very softly, "Stay with me?"

"What?"

"I'll take the potion," Ron said, looking at his knees, "but...stay with me, okay? For a little while."

Harry squirmed a bit, involuntarily. "You mean, like, watch you sleep?"

"Yeah," Ron said, and it was hard to tell in the dark but Harry was almost sure he was blushing. "Just for a little while."

It wasn't the weirdest thing they'd ever done for one another. Harry nodded. "All right. I'll, er, go get it for you, then."

"Thanks."

Luckily he found a bottle of E-ZZZs Super-Soothing Soporific in the upstairs bathroom; it was a bit old, but it didn't smell off, so he poured half a dose into the cup that usually held the toothbrushes and topped it off with water. He stepped back into Ron's room without knocking and found Ron in the midst of putting on his pajamas; he got the faintest glimpse of Ron's scarred back and the ghastly protrusion of his ribs and spine before Ron dropped an old shirt over his head. Harry cleared his throat, causing Ron to start, and offered the glass. "Here you are."

"Thanks," Ron said. He stared at the glass for several minutes, then chugged it down in a single gulp. Harry felt strange watching him climb into bed, so he made himself conspicuously busy arranging the desk chair until he heard the mattress stop squeaking.

"Sweet dreams," Harry said, more than half hopefully, but Ron was already asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

With nothing better to do for the moment, Harry watched Ron sleep. It felt weird, and for some reason rather intimate, but Ron had asked him to stick around and the only other option would be perusing the decade-old Martin Miggs comics that the Weasleys had so thoughtfully stacked on the corner of the desk. Harry told himself he was just being a mate, just doing as Ron had asked of him, for whatever Ron's reasons might be. He could handle the strangeness of it for a little while at least...and anyway, he wasn't all that sure it was a strictly bad sort of strangeness. Though that thought was strange all on its own.

Harry watched Ron sleep to avoid thinking about watching Ron sleep, if that made any sense at all. He remembered Ron sleeping in a chaotic sprawl when they were in school, stretching out over every available bit of mattress and then some, hands and feet dangling off the edge. Now Ron was curled tightly in on himself, with the blankets rucked up nearly over his head, though the room wasn't at all cold. He still slept like a log, though that may have been the potion's influence. Harry watched him, noted the way his shaggy hair spilled over his face and the periodic twitching of his eyelids. He had more freckles on his cheeks now than a week ago, Harry suddenly noticed; the little sunlight he had been getting was bringing them back.

Harry remembered times when Ron had looked practically tan after days spent outdoorsswimming, playing at Quidditch, degnoming the garden or just lazing about on the grass some lazy summer day. The last three years had changed everyone, though, not just Ron; wasn't that what he'd been trying to get across to Ginny? That none of them were the same person they'd once been? Ginny had grown quieter and more thoughtful, Neville more confident, Hermione less arrogant, and Harry himself...well. He'd shed the skin of the Chosen One and learned to go about the business of mundane life. He'd killed a man (to the extent that Voldemort could have still been considered a "man" at that point) and learned to live with himself. He sometimes felt he'd barely recognize himself now, if he could travel back to his sixth year, when the war still hadn't really touched him. They went off as warriors that summer and never returned quite the same.

So if Ron was different nowmore brittle, quieter, sadderhe was in good company. And Harry at least wasn't going to begrudge him the time he needed to sort that out on his own. Ron was like Sirius had been, in a way: Harry had sometimes wondered what might've been different if Sirius had had another season in the tropics, another year or two or five to heal from Azkaban before being thrust back into the thick of things. He wondered now how long Ron would need to let memories scab over before he could be himself again.

Harry's train of thought was interrupted by a whimper from the bed; Ron shivered under the blankets, and he face was screwed up tight as if in pain. For a moment Harry wondered if this was why Ron didn't want to be alone, if he should wake himbut by the time he'd resolved to action, Ron's face had smoothed out again and his breathing was easier. Harry settled back in the chair and stretched his legs out a bit. The windows no longer glowed with late daylight, and he imagined it was getting close to dinner; someone would probably be looking for him soon. He caught himself yawning a bit and shook his head, trying to pick up where he'd left off thinking.

Ron, of course. Ron would be himself again, he was sure of it. Ron would eventually calm down and learn to live again, just as Harry had. It was just going to take time...and there was no more war now, no Dark Wizard hanging over them...they had all the time in the world...

Harry's thoughts wandered vaguely, and he thought he might've fallen asleep for a bit, or at least dozed. He remembered Ron squirming in faint nightmares more than once, but they never seemed severe enough to merit waking him. He had no idea how much time had passed until someone knocked on the door, startling him out of slow, deep thoughts that scattered when he shook his head clear. He quickly got up and opened the door, lest the knocking wake Ron; Bill was on the other side, and he blinked at Harry in surprise.

"Hey," he said. "Didn't realize you were still here."

"I've been...um..." There really was no way to explain this that didn't sound weird, he realized. "Ron's asleep," he said.

"That's good," Bill said. "You might want to take his lead, tooyou look pretty beat."

Harry thought about this, about Ron's request that he stay. The nightmares weren't bad, or the sleeping potion was keeping him out through the worst of them, one of the two; on the other hand, it couldn't be that late. He checked his watch and blinked to see it was past midnight. "Bloody hell, I've been up here longer than I thought."

Bill cleared his throat. "I'll, er, keep an eye on him for a bit, if you want to grab a couple hours' sleep."

Harry felt a dull blush building in his neck, and wasn't sure if he was more embarrassed or annoyed. "Thanks," he muttered, "but I don'tI mean, he doesn'tI must've dozed off or something, I meant to come back down hours ago."

"Would've called you down for dinner, but we thought you'd already left."

"'Salright."

He wasn't sure what he was about to say nextprobably something about going downstairs and grabbing some leftoversbut whatever it was, he was interrupted by an unearthly sort of keening sound from behind him. He spun, throwing the door wide and letting an angled block of light in from the hallway. Ron was half-twisted on the bed, tangled in the bedclothes, and as Harry and Bill watched his body rose into a high agonized arch. The tendons in his neck bulged with the strain, and he sucked in a sobbing gasp of breath before letting it out in a keening wail through his teeth. Bill cursed under his breath. "Bloody hellDad warned me"

"What did who what?" Harry asked, still transfixed by Ron's violent nightmare. Was that how he'd once looked, when his mind was tangled painfully with Voldemort's? Was that what Ron had once rescued him from?

"Nightmares," Bill said, ducking around Harry to get to the bed. "Dad warned me he sometimes got like this."

Bill reached out and placed both hands on Ron's shoulders, shaking him firmly and calling his name. Harry saw Ron's eyes snap open in the dim light, and for a moment thought the crisis was averted, everything taken care of. But then, with a shoutno, a _roar_Ron suddenly surged out of bed, knocking Bill to the ground. "Ron!" Harry blurted, leaping forward. "Ron, settle down, it's okay, that's Bill!"

"Ron, it's all right, it's m" Bill's voice was suddenly cut off wetly as Ron's hands closed around his throat. Ron's eyes were blank and glassy, as if he were still in a dreamhe had to be still in the dream, because he was snarling as he squeezed, and he mumbling something, something low and hoarse and angry

_"You fucking son of a bitch, why can't I kill you?"_

Harry seized Ron about the chest and tried to pull him away, but for all his apparent frailty he was possessed of a manic sort of strength and wouldn't give. He seemed completely oblivious to Bill clawing at his hands or Harry's attempts to dislodge him, and for a moment Harry was tornBill was choking to death, but he didn't want to use force, not on Ron, not if he wasn't really aware of what he was doing

George suddenly appeared in the doorway, as if he'd Apparated. He blinked at them with wide eyes for a moment, until Harry blurted, "Get the hell over here and help!" Unfrozen, George leapt over and punched Ron in the side of the head; that was enough to loosen his grip, and Harry hauled him backwards while Bill scrambled away gasping. Ron thrashed and growled like an animal, and Harry dropped his body, pinning his friend with all his weight. He managed to get hold of the flailing arms and twist them backwards, immobilizing him, though he still bucked like an angry hippogriff. "Ron, stop it!" Harry shouted into his ear. "It's not real! He's _gone!"_

"What on earth is going on here?" Mr. Weasley called, and then he appeared in the doorway in his dressing gown, still holding a toothbrush. Mrs. Weasley peered around his shoulder with her hair in curlers. "What's the matter?"

"Ron's gone mad," George said, staring.

_"What?"_

Ron went suddenly still under Harry, gasping for breath, and after a few beats of silence Harry slowly release his grip on Ron's arms. Ron was drenched in sweat and shivering, but his eyes were closed. "Ron?" Harry said softly. "Are you awake now?"

"Please get off me," Ron whispered.

"Are you really?"

"Get off me," Ron said again, desperately, and then he started a rhythmic chant that steadily rose in volume and pitch, "get off me, get off me, get off me get off me get off me get off me _get off me"_

Harry jumped backwards, and Ron scrambled forwards on all fours into a corner, pressing his back to the walls. He stared, wild-eyed, and the tableau in the roomstared at Bill, whose neck was clearly red and rawand then...laughed.

It was a high-pitched, broken sounding laugh that trailed off into a sob. "Just a dream," he wheezed, then drew up his knees and hid his face. "Just a dream..."

"Harry," Mr. Weasley asked with a touch of fear in his voice, "what happened here?"

Harry climbed to his feet and wiped his palms on his robes, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from his friend. "Umhe had a nightmare," he said. "Ron did. A bad one. Bill tried to wake him out of it, but RonI guess he was still half-asleep or something, because he just...jumped on him."

"He was choking him, Dad," George said. He was watching Ron with a troubled expression, a mix of pity and shock and something like fear. "Ron was on him, choking him"

Mrs. Weasley pressed her hand to her mouth, eyes wide, and Mr. Weasley's brow furrowed. "Is that true?"

"It's not his fault," Bill croakedhe sounded terribly hoarse but seemed to be breathing all right. "He didn't know what he was doing, he thought I was someone else."

"That's right," Harry said quickly, "he was saying...stuff. He was dreaming."

Mr. Weasley looked at his two sons, one gasping for breath and the other shivering in the corner, and sighed. "All right," he said slowly, firmly, with a swipe of a hand through his remaining hair. "All right...Bill, let's have a look at you, first of all..."

"What about him?" George asked, tossing his head in Ron's general direction.

When Mr. Weasley appeared at a loss, Harry slowly crossed to Ron and crouched in front of him. "Mate?" he asked softly. "Talk to me."

"I'm fine," Ron said in a choked voice, and started scratching at his necknot rubbing it, but _scratching_ with the ragged ends of his bitten-off nails, raising raw pink lines in his scarred skin. "I'm just fine"

Harry caught his wrist and pulled it back. "Ron, stop it."

Ron looked at him, whispered "Sorry" and buried his face in his knees again. His shoulders started to shake and twitch rhythmically; it took Harry a moment to realize he was crying.

He sat back helplessly and looked at Mr. Weasley, who seemed to steel himself and step forward. "I'll handle it, Harry," he said softly. "Go on to bed, if you likePercy's old room is still free."

Harry was too numb and defeated to do anything else but nod and obey. He looked back only once, to see Mr. Weasley speaking very quietly to Ron, though he couldn't hear what words were being said. Ginny and Fred had been lurking in the hall behind Mrs. Weasley, and they both gasped when they saw Bill, whose neck was beginning to bruise. Harry ignored their strident questions and made his way down to the kitchen, where he found the Firewhiskey and proceeded to take a very deep drink. It helped muffle his nerves, a bit, but there seemed to be a heavy, ominous cloud over his heart, one that he didn't think all the liquor in the world could burn off.

They all ended up sitting around the kitchen table for well over an hour: Mrs. Weasley applied a potion to Bill's bruises and several times suggested the rest of them go back to sleep, but they ignored her, and she didn't seem to mind. She made tea, ostensibly to sooth Bill's throat, but everyone had a cup though nobody really drank it. They lingered over the table for a long time before Mr. Weasley came downstairs, rubbing his eyes.

"He's asleep again," he informed them. "Or faking convincingly."

"Is he all right?" Harry asked.

Fred snorted. "Is _he_ all right?"

"Piss off," Bill said. "He didn't do it deliberately."

"He could've killed you!"

"Boys!" Mr. Weasley barked, silencing them. "Bill, he asked me to tell you that he's very, very sorry, and Harry, he told me to tell you specifically that he doesn't want any more visitors tonight."

That stung, deeply. Ron had confided so much in him already, why shut him out now? The twins were looking at him oddly, and Harry slumped in his seat with a gulp of cold tea. "Does heI mean, are they always that bad, the nightmares?"

"No," Mrs. Weasley said, brows knit, "He has them most night, but notnot like this. He never wants to talk about them, we didn't think they were serious...."

"He doesn't sleep half the night," Ginny said incredulously. "How can that not be serious, mum?"

"So what do we do?" George asked. "What if he pulls another stunt like this?"

"What makes you think he will?" Harry snapped back. "I made him take a sleeping potion earlierfor all we know that's why it happened!"

"For all we know," Fred said, "he's going to wig out again any minute and hurt someone else. Or himself!"

"That's enough," Mr. Weasley said, but there was no more fire in it. "We are not going to accomplish anything more at this hour. Now, I suggest all of you find a bed and get in it. We'll worry about whatif anythingwe ought to do in the morning."

"We're going back to the shop," Fred said, standing. "We'll come round again in the morning to make sure nobody's died."

"Bloody hell, he's your brother!" Harry said.

George shook his head. "He's not well, Harry. I don't know what to think anymore."

Harry dumped his cold tea down the drain and had another shot of Firewhiskey before he went to bed, but it didn't help: his thoughts still swirled without getting anywhere. Ron _wasn't_ well, that was clear, but that didn't mean he was never going to get better...he hadn't meant to hurt Bill, and there was nothing suggesting that he'd be putting on a repeat performance of tonight...the twins were willing to turn on Ron just because he wasn't living up to their expectations, what the hell was wrong with them? It wasn't like he'd killed anyone...

...not this time, anyway...

-/--/--/-

 

Harry wasn't sure how many hours passed, or whether he'd actually dozed any, but when he gave up on sleep the sky was pink and gold with impending dawn. He started to climb the stairs and actually made it to the door of Ron's room before remembering the injunction of the night before; well, if Ron didn't want to see him, that was just bloody fine. Harry went back down, thinking that he would get a cup of coffee to chase the sleep from his brain before he had to go see Kingsley. He might as well get that part over with, seeing as his next course of action would largely be determined by whether or not he still had a job...

He heard voices in the kitchen as he stumbled down the stairs, but thought little of themhe didn't imagine he was the only one finding it difficult to sleep. When he came around the corner, though, he found that didn't have to go see Kingsley: Kingsley had come to him. He was in deep conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley over an early cup of coffee, but he looked up at Harry's approach and nodded to him.

"Good morning," Harry said, feeling an inexplicable sense of alarm.

"Morning, Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said distractedly. "Help yourself to some coffee."

"When did you get here?" he asked Kingsley warily.

"Molly sent for me," he said, sipping his own cup. "She was concerned about Ron's...episode...last night."

"It was just a nightmare," Harry said.

"She thought Ron might be under the influence of some kind of Dark Magic."

_"What?"_

Harry looked accusingly at Mrs. Weasley, who defended herself in a shrill sort of voice. "Well, he's been so _peculiar_ since he came home!" she said. "He hides upstairs, he won't let anyone touch him, he never talks..."

"He's been gone three years," Harry said, "he's not going to be exactly the same as when he left!"

Kingsley took another sip of his coffee. "As I was saying, Molly, the St. Mungo's staff are almost as adept as Aurors at detecting Dark magic. If Ron were bewitched, they would never have released him."

Mr. Weasley, who had been stirring his coffee in silence thus far, spoke up softly. "So Ron's...troubles, that's simply how he's going to be now?"

Harry slammed his mug down on the counter. "No," he said flatly.

Kingsley looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "Harry, your faith in your friend is exemplary"

"He's getting betterwell, he will get better, he just needs time"

"Why didn't you tell them about Lestrange, Harry?" Kingsley asked slowly, and Harry's insides went very cold.

Mrs. Weasley glanced between them fearfully. "Lestrange?" she asked. "Not...not _that_ Lestrange..."

"You told me yourself it was justified," Harry said quickly. "Lestrange was the one"

"I'm not arguing that point," Kingsley said, "but in light of what I understand happened last night, I think it represents a pattern of behavior"

"A pattern?" Harry said. "No! They're completely different"

"Harry, you saw what Ron is capable of!"

"What," Mr. Weasley asked firmly, "are you talking about?"

Harry clenched his jaw shut; he wasn't going to betray Ron's confidence. Kingsley looked at him for a long moment, then turned to Mr. Weasley and said, "Arthur, Ron has admitted to the murder of Rodolphus Lestrange."

Mr. Weasley's eyes went wide, and Mrs. Weasley's face became very white. "No," she sighed. "No, he wouldn'the couldn't haveI don't understand."

"Lestrange was the one who held him all this time," Harry said. "Lestrange was _torturing_ him. _He's_ the reason Ron's acting the way he is, you can't blame Ron for getting revenge."

"But I thought," Mr. Weasley said with a frown, "I mean, in the hospital they said Ron will have trouble doing magic, because of his hands."

"He didn't use a wand, Arthur," Kingsley said.

"That doesn't make Ron a danger to anyone else!" Harry said.

"Harry, you put in your own report that Ron was mentally confused and aggressive when you found him," Kingsley said. "The rest of the team's reports back that up. The _Healers_ back that upthey had to Stun him just to be able to treat him."

"So what are you saying?" Harry demanded. "That he's a nutter? That he's going to go mad and kill people any minute?"

"I'm saying," Kingsley said, "that the latest incident only confirms a pattern of unstable behavior that should be taken into consideration."

"He isn't crazy!" Harry said, stepping up nearly toe-to-toe with Kingsley, who stayed seated. "He's justhe's been stressed, he's not used to things anymorehe just needs more time"

Kingsley stood up and folded his arms. "Harry, as I said, your loyalty and concern are admirable," he said. "But this is Arthur and Molly's decision to make. It's their house and he's their son, and if he isn't mentally competent, they're the ones with decision-making authority."

He spun and looked at them. "You don't think he's crazy, do you?" he asked. "You don'tyou can't"

"Harry," Mr. Weasley said uneasily, "if he's _killed_ someone"

"So have I!"

"Those were far different circumstances," Kingsley said.

The Weasleys looked at each other, not at him, looking afraid and confused and worriedand Harry couldn't blame them, reallybut couldn't they see? If Ron just had a little more time to get used to thingsif they'd stop hounding him and pushing him into parties full of idiotshe wasn't going to ever to back to how he used to be, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to get better

Mr. Weasley took a deep breath. "Kingsley," he said, "what would you suggest we do?"

Kingsley paused for a long moment, and Harry found himself holding his breath. "Personally," he said, "I would recommend sending him back to St. Mungo's for the foreseeable future."

"You mean have him committed?" Harry blurted. "You can't!"

"Maybe you should."

Harry spun around at the soft, hoarse voice, and his chest contracted painfully. Ron was lurking in the doorway, barely peeking around the cornerhow long had he been down there? How much had he heard? He looked at them all with an inscrutable expression, and said again, hoarsely, "Maybe you should send me away."

"Ron," Harry said, "don't say that"

"Maybe it's where I belong."

Ron slipped away, and Harry heard feet on the stairs. Without thinking he gave chase, following Ron all the way back up the stairs, back up to his room, and yanking the bedroom door out of his hands before he could lock it. "Ron," Harry said, "listen to me."

"No, Harry." Ron sat on the bed, facing the window, face still blank. "I want to go. I want to get out of here."

"You don't belong in the hospital," Harry said.

"I don't belong anywhere else, either."

"You're getting better"

"Don't you get it, Harry?" Ron suddenly shouted, and when he turned to look at Harry his expression was raw. "He _broke_ me! I fought him for three bloody years and the son of a bitch still broke me!"

He took a long, shuddering breath and buried his face in his arms again. Harry climbed onto the bed and grabbed Ron's wrist, ignoring the automatic twitch. "No," he said. "No, don't say that"

"I can't do it," Ron said. "I can'tI could've killed Bill last night, don't you see? I'm cracked. I can't do it. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't _live_ like this!"

"So you're just going to give up?" Harry demanded. "Go spend the rest of your life strapped to a bed on a closed ward?"

Ron shook his head. "You don't understand," he said. "You don't have one bloody clue."

"I know you can do it" Ron tried to twist away from him, and Harry grabbed a handful of his dressing gown and yanked him back around. "Ron, listen to me. You can do it. I've seen youin the hospital, when Hermione brought that scrap book, or when you're playing with Jack ororlook, you're not messed up all the time, and if you quit trying to push yourself to act like...like whatever you think you should be acting like, you _will_ get better. You _will_. I promise."

Ron looked at him, and for a moment Harry thought he might actually believe itbut then he shut his eyes and shook his head. "I just want to be normal," he whispered. "I just want to go back to bloody normal but...but they _look_ at me, like I'm a freak, and I know they think I'm crazy"

"Then they're wrong," Harry said. "They're wrong, you hear me? They don't understand what you've lived through and...and they're wrong."

Both of Harry's hands had migrated to Ron's shoulders now, and he could feel the muscles under his fingers twitch and jump uncomfortably. They were very close together on the bed, and when Ron looked up at him with a faint hope in his eyes Harry found it difficult to breathe. "Why do you even bother, mate?" Ron asked. "I mean, _I_ don't even want to put with me, why're you...why bother?"

"'Cause you're my best mate," Harry said, swallowing hard. "And I know you're all right."

"But...why?"

Ron wasn't crazy, but perhaps Harry _was,_ because he suddenly leaned forward and pressed their lips together. It wasn't a kisswasn't anything like a kiss_kiss_ implied two active participants, and Ron wasn't really doing anything, not even breathing, while Harry pressed against his slack mouth, overcome by a need to touch and show and provesomethinghe wasn't sure he even knew

And then Harry's common sense came back all in a rush, and he recoiled, waiting for the worst. Ron stared at him with wide eyes, face flushed, but didn't move, didn't react at all. _Oh shit,_ Harry thought, _what have I done?_

"I've got to go," he blurted, and rushed downstairs. He brushed past the Weasleys, veered around Kingsley, made a beeline for the back garden and Disapparated with the same thought ringing loudly through his head. _What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?_

-/--/--/-

 

Later that afternoon just before he was about to drag himself sleeplessly to work, an owl arrived. It carried a letter addressed to him in Ginny's smooth, curly handwriting, but the inside had only a single sentence.

_He's checking back into St. Mungo's._


	9. Chapter 9

The next four days passed for Harry in a confused and timeless blur. He went through the motions of day-to-day life, but in between bouts of obsessive speculation on Ronon everything possibly related to Ron and that ridiculous, bewildering kisshe was overcome by a curious mental numbness he couldn't quite explain. It allowed him to sleep at night, at least, and maintain the illusion of focused diligence at work, but it didn't help him come up with any answers to the questions that occasionally penetrated the haze.

He didn't fancy Ron. He did _not._ He told himself this most firmly. Ron was his friend, had been by his side through almost all his darkest moments...he was Ginny's brother, for god's sake, and if Harry was going to fancy anyone it ought to be hershe was his girlfriend, after all, or at least used to be. Harry loved Ron like a friend...like a brother...he wanted to protect him...help him...snog him.

Bugger, stop that. He did _not_ want to snog him.

So why had he tried?

_Temporary insanity,_ he thought, _I hadn't slept enough and I was upset...I was hallucinating or something._ If the situation had been different...if he'd been well-rested and completely rational...he imagined it again, Ron's twitching shoulders under his hands, Ron's slack face and needy eyes, the edge in his voice..._Why do you put up with me?_

Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Harry endured his scheduled meeting with Kingsley, nodding in the right places during a lecture on objectivity and duty. He thought Kingsley could tell that his head wasn't in the discussion, because it didn't go any further than a telling-off, and Harry meekly accepted re-assignmentanother surveillance position, but at least it had regular daytime hours. For a few days Harry concentrated very hard on his job, went home, and ate dinner in front of the telly, watching whatever came on without paying particular attention to any of it. He thought about going to the Burrow, but just the idea of it made him uncomfortable; he couldn't decide if he was angry with the Weasleys or guilty about his own brusque behavior. They had pushed Ron so hard, had put so much pressure on himbut he couldn't blame them, either, for wanting their son and brother back they way he'd been. And yet they'd given up on him, packed him back off to the hospital instead of doing anything to actually _help_sure, Ron's outburst had been frightening, but did they really think committing him was going to help anything?

Harry thought about going to the hospital to see Ron, and even found his way into the waiting room one afternoon, but he had no idea what he'd say if they saw each other. A part of him suspected he'd just make the situation worse. He wanted to tell Ron again not to give up, that he believed in him, but somehow that felt wrong nownot that he didn't still believe that Ron would get better, but he felt as if kissing him had somehow tainted things, had abused Ron's trust in him. How could Harry criticize the Weasleys for making demands of Ron, when he himself had just dumped something like that in his friend's lap without warning? Well, something that looked like that. Because he hadn't really meant to kiss Ron, had never wanted to put that kind of pressure on him...because there was nothing to be pressuring Ron over.

Or was there?

_Bugger._

In the end, he had to talk to Hermione. She hadn't spoken or written to him since Sunday, but she understood more than Harry ever would about feelings, even his own. He went by her office on his lunch break Thursday, but her secretary informed him that she'd taken the week off on short notice.

"Did she say why?" Harry asked with a frown.

The secretary shrugged as she batted a flock of irate memos out of her face. "Personal reasons. None of my business, is it?"

Curious now, Harry checked in with Calhoun and then Apparated to Lancashire. The cottage that Neville and Hermione shared had once served as a vacation home; its current purpose was primarily to keep them out of the sight and reach of Augusta Longbottom, who generally approved of Hermione as a witch but considered premarital sex to be a fourth Unforgivable. The cottage was tucked behind some hills at the top of a long, steep track, and they had warded itwith Harry's own helpto prevent Apparation to any sort of conveniently nearby point. A chilly wind was blowing through intermittent clouds, and Harry turned up his cloak collar against it, but by the time he got within earshot of the cottage he had worked up a sweat from the rough ascent. He heard them calling to each other before he could see them, so he wasn't entirely surprised to find Neville and Hermione toiling in the back garden, preparing the beds for the oncoming winter. He still wasn't sure he'd ever get used to seeing Hermione in a floppy hat and patched apron, but she had become quite the gardener herself under Neville's influence, and as Harry approached she was inspecting a high trellis of scarlet runner beans.

"How much can we really eat, though?" she was calling when Harry climbed over the garden wall.

Half-buried under a trembling bush, Neville called back, "Well, we'll just give the leftovers away. Or put them up."

"It's not like it'll hurt anything to just leave them."

"Waste not, want not, right?"

"Well, if youoh, Harry!" Hermione almost dropped the basket she was holding (which was already half-full of ripe bean pods) when she saw him. "Goodness, you gave me such a fright!"

"Sorry," he said. "Ieryour secretary said you weren't coming in..."

The bush Neville was buried under gave a high-pitched squeal, and then Neville emerged with a tangle of dead leaves in his hair. His mouth tightened when he saw Harry. "'Lo," he called in a flat voice.

"Hey, Neville," Harry said, then cleared his throat. Might as well get this bit out of the way now. "Erlook, about Sunday"

Neville shook his head. "I wasn't on my best behavior myself," he mumbled. "Don't worry about it."

Hermione observed this with a bemused expression, then set down her basket and stripped off her gloves. "Did you want to see me about something, Harry?"

"Yeahercan we talk inside for a bit?"

Hermione looked at Neville, and he shrugged, picking up the basket. "I'll finish the beans, go on."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"No trouble at all."

Hermione smiled and kissed Neville on the cheek before leading Harry into the small, cozy kitchen. He watched her shed her gardening gear from a seat at the table. "So, er," he said. "You're okay now? You and Neville?"

Her mouth pinched a little. "I think so," she said after a while. "I'll let you know in a couple of months."

Harry winced. "That bad, huh?"

She sat down with a sigh and conjured a pot of tea. "Let's just say that a few things have come up that we would've had to talk about sooner or later...and probably should've talked about a long time ago. But what was it you wanted to talk about?"

Harry took his tea, wrapped his chilly hands around the mug, inhaled deeply and told her everything. He meant for it to sound like a reasonable, adult sort of analysis of the situation, but somehow he kept gaining volume and speed till at the end he feared he sounded a touch hysterical. "...and I don'tI mean, I don't fancy him. In my head. Only I do. And I don't understand why, and I think, I really think I bollixed everything up this time, Hermione, and I'm afraid I just made everything worse."

He gulped his tea and looked up at her; her eyes were comically wide, and she cleared her throat delicately. "Let me get this straight," she said. "You kissed Ron."

"Right."

"And you don't know why."

He sighed. "I do and I don't. I don't...I never felt like that toward him before, I've never...I don't think I've ever fancied a bloke. But he's so messed up, Hermione, and he thinks he's broken, for Merlin's sake, and I want...I know he can get better, he just can't see it..."

"You want to save him?" she asked.

He wanted to glare at her, but the words brought shape to the feeling in an uncomfortable sort of way. "A little bit, yeah."

She shook her head. "Harry, this is not a good idea..."

"I know that!" he said, and stared out the window at the yellowing trees. "He's already got enough problems without have to deal with mine."

"And you've got enough problems without convincing yourself you fancy him," she said. "Harrylook, Ron is not the boy we knew when we were eighteen."

"I know that, too," he sighed. "That's what I've been trying to tell all his family...but, Hermione, you saw him that first day in the hospital. I've been playing chess with him. He's more like that boy we remember than even he knowsI've seen it."

"And you want to bring that out of himbring him back to that."

"Sort of, yeah."

She learned forward, chin in hand. "Are you sure this is all about Ron?"

"What do you mean?"

"Harry," she said slowly, "we all endured a lot in the war. We all lost things. When we left Hogwarts and joined the fight, it changed everythingfor you perhaps more than anyone. Don't you think that just maybe, through Ron, you're trying to get back to the way things were while we were still at school?"

"I don't follow you," he said with a frown. "The war started at school"

"But it wasn't the same as when we were looking for the Horcruxes, was it?"

"I still don't see what your mean."

She sighed and looked out the window and the wavering trees. "When hewhen I thought Ron had died, Harry, I didn't think that anything could hurt me that much. I thought I'd never feel anything but anger and pain again. Everything I'd been planning for a future, everything I'd aspired for myselfit all seemed like so much rubbish after that. Because if it could happen to Ron, it could happen to me, or anyone else, and so there really wasn't much of a point..."

Harry blinked at her, trying to fit this confession into his memories of her at the timewooden-faced, upright, solid as a rock. "I had no idea," he muttered.

"Of course not," she said quickly, straightening in her chair. "Someone had to keep you going, after all. But, Harry, tell me you didn't feel the same way, at least a littletell me you didn't lose a part of yourself when we lost him."

He nodded, but kept watching her, with the sudden impression that maybe this hadn't been a good idea after all. "Is that why you got together with Neville, then?" he asked. "Because you'd lost something with Ron?"

She frowned and closed her eyes. "I've already had this conversation once this week..."

"Just answer the question."

She swirled the tea in her mug and stared into it for so long that Harry wondered if she was planning on reading the leaves. Then she said softly, "Harry, Ron was the first boy I ever really loved, and he was an important part of life for many years. I loved him, and he is a dear, dear friend, and I wish only the best for him now." She tossed her hair and looked out the window again. "But...he's in the past, Harry. That part of my life is in the past, and even though I still care about him..."

Neville suddenly came into view through the window, hauling a sack of dragon dung over his shoulder. He still had the leaves in his hair and there was a wet splotch on his apron that Harry didn't particularly want to investigate. He must've sensed them looking, because he waved through the window with one dirt-encrusted hand before continuing to his destination, just out of sight.

"I think I understand," Harry said.

She looked at him and smiled thinly. "Thank you."

But that still didn't solve Harry's problem, and he polished off his own tea contemplating it. "I don't think...I mean, I've been trying to tell Ginny all week that we can't turn back the clocks. I'm under no illusions that me and Ron are going to pop down to the pub any time soon and goof around like teenagers again."

"What about Ginny?" Hermione asked. "How does she fit into any of this?"

Harry slumped back in his seat. "I haven't got the faintest idea."

"Do you still love her?"

"I guessI don't know. That's my point, it's been ages, things can't possibly be the same. But I don't know where that leaves me with her...or him." He rubbed his eyes. "Bloody hell, this is messed up."

Hermione banished their mugs to the sink, then patted Harry's hand. "Look, I don't know how much help I can be on this. It seems like you've got to examine your motives here and make sure you're not putting all this pressure on Ron for a selfish reason."

"And in the mean time?" he asked. "I mean, what the hell do I say to him?"

"I wouldn't say anything, unless he asks," she said firmly. "Like you said, he's got loads of problems right now, and he can't be under the illusion that you're going to save him from himself. You've protected him long enough."

"How is he doing, anyway?" Harry asked. "I know they put him back in the hospital."

"He put himself back in," she said. "As I understand it, his mum and dad asked him to decide for himself, and he said he wanted to go back, for a little while."

Somehow that was even more depressing to Harry than the thought of his parents carting him off. "How long is a little while? I mean, I assume he's still there."

She sighed. "Yes. In the Janus Thickey ward." Harry winced. "I've spent almost all week with Neville, but from what I've heard from Ginny...I don't think he's doing very well."

"How are they treating him?"

"From what I gather, they aren't really. Just using sleeping potions and Calming Charms to prevent him...er..."

"Freaking out?" Harry offered.

"If you want to put it that way." She suddenly got up and flicked through a basket of post on the kitchen counter. "Actually, Mrs. Weasley wrote to me this morningthey're having a meeting at the hospital tomorrow, and she wanted his friends to be there. Did you get one?"

"No," he said. "I have a feeling they may not want me there."

But when Harry got home that evening, there was a letter on his window sill addressed in Mrs. Weasley's hand, with a personal note. _Harry, dear, I know something upsetting happened between you and Ron on Monday even if he won't tell me what, but the Healer in charge of his ward wanted to speak to the family about his treatment and she recommended that we get as many people there as possible. You're like a brother to him and I hope you can come to hear what they have to say._

He thought about it for a long while. Like a brother, right. A mad brother who jumps on him and snogs him. But it couldn't hurt just to go and find out what was happening...he wouldn't even necessarily have to talk to Ron while he was there. And clearly Mr. and Mrs. Weasley weren't holding his outbursts at Kingsley again him. He hesitated a moment longer before grabbing a square of parchment off his desk and scribbling:

_Mrs. Weasley, I'm sorry for how I've been behaving. Of course I'll come to the meeting if I'm welcome._ He folded it up, tucked it into Hedwig's beak and sent her out into the night sky.

-/--/--/-

Harry told Kingsley the next morning that he would miss part of the afternoon for a "family emergency"; Kingsley merely raised an eyebrow at him. Harry Apparated to the hospital and, after three wrong turns and an argument with a portrait, found his way to the office of Aphemia Saxifrage, the Healer currently in charge of the Janus Thickey ward.

It was a large and spacious office with one of the high, narrow windows common to the whole building, but currently it was crammed full of Weasleys. _Everyone_ had come, including Percy, probably thanks to Mrs. Weasley's patented guilt-inducing abilities. Hermione and Neville sat in the back corner, and she conjured a narrow stool for Harry to sit onthe only thing that would fit in the cramped space. As it was he had to lean at an odd angle against a bookshelf in order to see around Bill's head.

"Glad you came," Hermione said softly.

Harry shrugged. "I want to know what's going to happen next."

"Madame Saxifrage went to get some paperworkbut that was before the twins got here. I do hope she can get back in..."

As it turned out, she couldn't; when Madame Saxifrage opened her door and realized how many people were actually in her office, her eyes bugged out. Fred and George stood up and lifted their chairs over their heads to let the stout little woman get through to her desk. "Well, I want to thank you...er, all of you...for coming," she said. "Are you all family...?"

"And friends," Mrs. Weasley added with a small smile in Harry's and Hermione's direction.

"Right. Well." Madame Saxifrage shuffled her notes and then leaned forward, fingers steepled on her desk, in a way that reminded Harry very much of the doctor the Dursleys used to take him to for check-ups and jabs. "I don't supposed it's much of a secret that we haven't been able to do much for young Ronald here."

"You said he was sleeping better," Mrs. Weasley said in a somewhat hopeful voice.

Madam Saxifrage made an equivocal gesture with one hand. "That's true, but it's due to some rather powerful sleeping potions that I'd rather not keep him on indefinitely. The truth is, I'm afraid, that Ron's problems are not magically-induced, and there simply isn't a spell to heal wounds to the mind."

"Why can't you just Obliviate him?" George asked. "If he forgets what happened to him"

"That's a huge thing to Obliviate!" Hermione said. "Three yearsit could destroy his memory permanently."

"Quite right," Madame Saxifrage said. "And there's the matter of efficacyprolonged trauma builds up, in a way, below the level of conscious thought or memory. If we did Obliviate him, Ron would still very likely suffer from the same symptoms, he simply wouldn't have any understanding of why."

"So what do you suggest, Madame Saxifrage?" Mr. Weasley said. "Is there another hospital we could send him to?"

The Healer hesitated for a moment, then said, "To tell the truth, Mr. Weasley, I don't believe that what your son needs right now is hospital care. I've spoken to the Auror's division about his situation" she waved a folder that Harry recognized by the familiar red X stamped on the front"and I think he's had more than enough of captivity for a while. A more home-like environment would probably be far more beneficial to him than any sort of institutional setting."

Bill was the one who picked up on her wording. "Home-_like?"_ he said. "But not home?"

She nodded and glanced through her paperwork. "I mean no offense to you, Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, but I would question whetherahthe Burrow is the best place for Ron right now."

Mrs. Weasley's expression said she might as well have been slapped. "But it's his home!" she protested. "It's where he belongs! Tell her, Arthur."

"Madame Saxifrage," Mr. Weasley said, leaning forward, "we only want the best for Ron."

"I don't doubt that," she said, "but from talking with Ron I've come to suspect that simply being at homethrough no fault of yours, I assure youwas an unnecessary source of stress for him."

"I don't understand," Mrs. Weasley said. "How could it be upsetting him? It's his home!"

Madame Saxifrage sighed and leaned forward over her desk again. "Mrs. Weasley, try to put yourself in your son's place. He is still suffering the effects of the very traumatic things he's endured, and suddenly he was placed in a setting that reminded him constantly of the past rather than allowing him to move forward with his situation. I don't believe you did anything wrong, or at least nothing that didn't have his best interests at heartbut my colleagues in the other wards aren't as familiar with injuries to the heart and mind, and they may have been over-optimistic about his emotional recovery, if they even considered it."

There was a long gap of silence, and then Ginny said, "So if he shouldn't stay at the Burrow, where should he go?"

"I was hoping you could sort that out amongst yourselves," Madame Saxifrage said, looking around. "I understand Ron has several brothers ..."

"Count us out," George said immediately. "Not that we don't want to help, butyou've all seen how jumpy he is. Living about the shop would drive him spare."

"Besides," Fred said, "we've no roomhe'd be sleeping on the sofa."

Bill and Percy looked at one another with frowns. "I," Percy stammered, "that is to say, my fiancee and I, are not, we've never been particularly close to Ron. He may not be...comfortable, staying with us for a long period."

Bill shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry. I know Ron wouldn't intentionally hurt any of us, butI've got Jack to think about. If something were to happenif Ron had another episode or somethingI'd never forgive myself."

A part of Harry wanted to get angry at themto rant and rave about how this was their _brother,_ for God's sake, that they could put forth a bit more of an effort, make a bit of a sacrifice. But the other part of him understood that they all had valid points, excellent reasons for not jumping in. And in a deeper sense, he understood that they had all built lives in these last three years, lives that didn't have space for Ron included. Everyone else has already moved on...except...

"I could do it," Harry blurted out.

Seven red heads whipped around to blink at him. Hermione sat up straighter. "Are you sure about that?" she asked warily.

"Yeah," Harry said. "I mean, my flat has two bedrooms...it does!" he added at Hermione's expression. "I just need to, erm, clean the other one up a bit. He could stay with me for a while."

"I don't know," Mrs. Weasley said with a frown. "I don't like the idea of him living in London...and a Muggle building..."

"I'm on the Floo," he said. "You could check on him whenever you want."

"He does seem to get on best with Harry, out of all of us," Bill said. "If you're really up to it, mate..."

"'Course I am," Harry said. "It'll be no trouble...well...nothing I'm not willing to deal with."

Mrs. Weasley looked at Hermione and Neville. "What do _you_ think, dears?" she asked.

Neville's expression hardened and his shoulders went stiff. Hermione cleared her throat, then she grabbed Neville's hand and squeezed firmly. For a moment Harry was certain that she was going to volunteer herselfhe knew the cottage had an extra room, and the isolated hills of Lancashire were the perfect place for Ron to find peace and quiet, it was Muggle-warded and it was an actual house...

"If Harry's up to it, I don't see why not," Hermione said.

Harry blinked at her. So did Neville.

"Well," Madame Saxifrage said. "That seems to settle it. Mr. Potter, I'll arrange his discharge for Sunday, if that's convenient for you. Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, you retain full responsibility as his next of kin to make any further decision about his medial care, should any questions arise..."

It took a while to get everyone out of the room; Mr. Weasley shook Harry's hand and thanked him, saying, "I may not fully agree with Madame Saxifrage's opinion, but I'm willing to try anything that might help."

"You will be careful, won't you, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley said. "You won't let him do anything...well, of course you won't."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Harry said. "'Sides, it's not like he'sI dunnoquarantined or something, you can still come over if you like."

"I think I will," she said. "Do you think you use any help cleaning?"

"Loads," Harry said, hoping he wasn't going to regret it later.

Hermione and Neville passed them going down the corridor, but then Hermione pecked Neville on the cheek and doubled back. "Harry, could I talk to you for a moment?" she asked innocently.

"Sure." Harry followed her around a corner, bracing himself for a scathing reprimand.

Instead, she just folded her arms and _looked_ at him. "You're absolutely certain about this," she said.

"Yes," he said. "Really."

"Even in light of...?"

Harry felt his neck go read. "Look, it'll only be for a couple of weeks, right?" he said. "I've been saying all along that Ron just needs the chance to relax. This is his chance. I bet he'll be back at the Burrow in no time."

"And you think you can, ah, restrain yourself?"

"I'm not a teenager," he grumbled. "I've got a modicum of self-control. _Yes."_

"And," she said, "you're not going to coddle him?"

Harry almost told her what he thought of her definition of coddling, but remembered the point she had made yesterdayabout Ron becoming dependent on his protection. "I'll try not to," he said. "You may have to pop over once in a while and hit me on the head."

She sighed. "I would've done it, I just...we're in a very strange place right now, Neville and I."

"Hey, don't worry about it." Harry patted her on the shoulder. "I don't blame you."

"Thank you, Harry." She popped up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, too. "And good luck."

"Thanks, but I'm hoping not to need it."


	10. Chapter 10

Preparing for Ron's imminent arrival felt a bit like preparing for a visit from some important head of state...or possibly a date, which was not a line of thought Harry wanted to spend any amount of time pursuing. He spent Saturday cleaning his flat from top to bottom under the watchful eye of Mrs. Weasley, who seemed to be venting her anxiety about the whole situation through obsessive nitpicking and repeated scouring of the toilet. The better part of the afternoon was spent trying to acquire appropriate furniture for the second bedroom, which he had heretofore been using for miscellaneous storage. The Weasleys donated a bed and chest of drawers from their attic, but since there were few Muggle or magical means to transport them that would neither disturb Harry's neighbors nor take all night, the twins got the bright idea to shove them through the Floo. The bureau made it all right after they shrunk it a bit, but the bed got stuck halfway, and slightly singed.

Mrs. Weasley spent over an hour inspecting the bedroom to ensure it was clean and furnished up to her high standards, and insisted on decorating it with as many of Ron's old posters and pennants as she could fit on the walls. Harry, however, took these down again almost as soon as she'd left. _No pressure,_ he reminded himself, stacking everything neatly on top of the bureau. _Let him decide what he wants. _The words had quickly become his mantra for anything to do with Ron. _Let him decide for himself._

Sunday morning Harry checked and re-checked the tiny second bedroom, and for the first time he was touched with nerves. If Ron didn't start to improve here, if he simply didn't like it...or if he brought up that embarrassing excuse for a kissif he asked about that, Harry still wouldn't have any answers for him. Despite thinking about Hermione's words for several days, he couldn't untangle the way he feltjust that thinking of Ron, being around him, made him feel incredibly happy and fiercely protective by turns. And somehow he didn't think _Sorry, mate, but you just give me a warm fuzzy feeling_ would do anything to reassure Ron or improve their friendship. Perhaps if he just didn't say anything, they could both forget about it. Wasn't it Hermione's opinion that he needed to move on? This could be the place to start...

Harry grew increasingly nervous as the clock ticked towards noon, the hour at which Ron would officially be discharged. At quarter to twelve he gave up on all pretenses and Apparated over to the hospital, slipping into the lobby from the street entrance. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were already there, filling out a high stack of discharge papers. They greeted him distractedly as he approached. "You're here a bit early, aren't you, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked as she filled in Ron's height, weight and Hogwarts house on Form 3094-G.

Harry shrugged awkwardly, feeling out of place. "Better than being late," he mumbled. "Need any help?"

Mr. Weasley looked at Form 532 Schedule Q, slowly ticking his own nose with the end of his quill. "No, no, I think we have it all in hand..." He paused, and sneezed. "It'll just be a minute or two, I'm sure."

"Why don't you go up and let him know we're all here?" Mrs. Weasley suggested, filling in something that looked suspiciously like an astrological chart on the back of a form. "He's probably wondering what's taking so long, the poor boy."

Harry swallowed. "They'll probably bring him downstairs any minute..."

"Not until we've gotten all the paperwork in order," Mr. Weasley said, betraying a bit of frustration. "Go on, I'm sure he'd like to see you."

"Gonna be seeing plenty of me soon," Harry said with a bit of a shrug, but the Weasleys were clearly engrossed by the paperwork, and frankly the thought of lingering down there indefinitely to wait made Harry's stomach churn. He and Ron were going to have to deal with one another anyway; there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

Besides, if this wasn't going to work out, he'd rather find out sooner than later...

Harry made his way up to the Janus Thickey ward and waited outside the doors for what seemed like forever until a trainee Healer let him inside. Most of the beds were still swaddled in curtainsHarry supposed that the patients were allowed a bit of a lie-on on weekends. The trainee led Harry towards Ron's bed, saying in a low voice, "He might be having a nap, we just gave him his lunchtime potions. But he's all packed and ready, or nearly should be..."

"Has he been, y'know, okay?" Harry asked.

The trainee shrugged. "Depends on how you define it. Hasn't improved any that I can see, but he hasn't gotten any worseslap a Calming Charm on him every couple of hours and he's no trouble at all."

"Right," Harry said, recalling what Neville had said about the Healers treating panic attacks. No wonder Ron wasn't getting any better in here.

The trainee jostled the curtains and peeked in, raising his voice just a bit. "Mr. Weasley?" he said. "You've a visitor."

Harry heard Ron grunt something vaguely, and the trainee stepped aside for him. Inside the curtains, he could see that Mrs. Weasley had once again done her work: another vase of daffodils decorated the nightstand, and a few photographs were tacked to the walls, with small holes showing where others had already been taken down. Ron, though dressed, was curled on the bed on his side, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, with a heavy suitcase at his feet. He looked like he'd gained a fair amount of weight back, and his hair and beard were properly trimmed, but his face still had that carefully blank expression that he showed in public and something about his pose made him lookvulnerable. Fragile. Sad.

Until he looked up and saw Harry, that is, and then he smiledactually smiled. Harry's heart did a bit of a double-step. _Cut that out,_ he told himself. "Hey, mate," he said awkwardly.

"Hey," Ron said; his voice was still thick with sleep. He sat up against the headboards and drew his knees up, not in a self-protecting gesture, but just enough to make room for Harry to sit down. "Come to fetch me home?"

"Not exactly," Harry said. "Didn't Madame Saxifrage tell you?"

Ron shrugged, and yawned. "Just said I was getting discharged."

Now or never, then. "Sheshe actually thinks that the Burrow was too stressful for you," Harry said quickly, "soso you're going home with me. Erm. For a while."

Ron blinked several times, looking lost and confused. "With you?"

"With me." Harry swallowed. "If you want to."

Ron was silent for so long that Harry became positive Ron was going to reject himno, no, that wasn't right at all, it wouldn't have anything to do with him personally, just with his flat. Or maybe it would be personal, if Ron was now afraid of being jumped on and snogged at any moment. If Ron no longer trusted him. But Ron suddenly nodded and said, "Yeah. Yeah, okay," in a surprisingly firm voice.

"It's okay?"

"Yeah." Ron flashed him another weak smile. "Weren't we going to flat together anyway, after everything else?"

Harry nodded, remembering. "We were both going to be Aurors," he said, as his anxiety gave way to a different kind of discomfort.

Ron nodded, and shrugged. "Reckon getting it half-right isn't too shabby."

The trainee stuck his head back into the curtains and cleared his throat. "Mr. Weasley, you're free to go now. I understand your parents are waiting in the lobby..."

So Ron sluggishly put on his shoes while Harry helped him gather the last of his things, and the three of themHarry, Ron, and the trainee Healerwent down to the lobby in a group. They found Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at the desk, filling in a few final pieces of paperwork, but they both looked up and smiled when they noticed Ron's approach. Mrs. Weasley turned to meet her son, but she didn't hug himHarry could tell from the jerky little half-step she made that she had stopped herself at the last minute. Instead she took his hand and squeezed it. "Hello, dear, how are you feeling?"

Ron shrugged. "Sleepy. Lots of potions."

"Did the Healers tell you that you're going to stay with Harry for a while?"

"I told him," Harry said as Ron nodded.

"Good, good." Mr. Weasley signed the last long scroll with a bit of a flourish and handed it back to the witch at the desk. "That's it, then," he said cheerfully. "Come along, Ron, let's go get you settled."

-/--/--/-

Ron's parents hung around for most of the afternoon, not doing anything in particular. Harry thought he could sort of understand whybeing told you were a bad environment for your son was only slightly better than a kick in the teethbut he was still relieved when they finally found their way home late in the afternoon. Mrs. Weasley left behind a large cauldron of stew, which by Harry's estimates would probably feed both him and Ron for the rest of the week, and cautioned him to make sure Ron ate properly"And it wouldn't hurt to put some weight on yourself as well," she added, "and remind Ron that he can call us any time, we're just over the Floo, if her needs anything at all."

"I will, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said. "Don't worry about it."

She stared at him for a moment, then suddenly hugged him fiercely. "Take care of him, Harry," she whispered into his shoulder.

Harry patted her awkwardly on the back, looking to Mr. Weasley for help; he just held Mrs. Weasley's cloak and stood back, out of the way. "Of course I will," Harry said. "He's my friend."

Mrs. Weasley pulled away and wiped her eyes; Mr. Weasley passed her a handkerchief. "Of course you will," she repeated. "You're a good boy. You're both good boys..."

"Thank you for doing this for him, Harry," Mr. Weasley said earnestly. "I don't necessarily agree with Madame Saxifrage, but...we really do appreciate your willingness to help."

Harry shrugged, and shook Mr. Weasley's hand. "He's my friend," he repeated uselessly. _I'd do anything for him._

When they had finally gone, Harry decided to check in on how well Ron was getting settled. Ron had holed up in his new room early on, claiming residual fatigue from the potions, and Harry was careful to knock, just in caseno need to startle him. Somewhat to his surprise, Ron called out, "Yeah?" which Harry took as permission to go inside.

Ron was sitting on the bed, staring at the opposite wall, where he'd hung a single photograph. It took Harry a moment to recognize it as the same photograph he himself had sitting on his nightstand: himself, Ron, Ginny and Hermione gathered in the common room, right before the end of sixth year and the beginning of...well, everything else. He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Er. All right, Ron?"

"Yeah," Ron said after a heartbeat. "Are they gone?"

"Yeah." Harry hesitated, then asked, "Where'd you find that?"

"The photo?" Ron shrugged. "It was in the scrapbook. Reckon Hermione got it mixed up with some other stuff and slipped it in on accident."

Part of Harry doubted that Hermione did anything accidentally, especially given the way her photographic alter-ego and the Ron in the picture were looking at each other. He remembered what she'd said a few days earlier, and felt a curious sort of sadness: so much had changed since those days, so much had been lost...his photographic self grabbed picture-Ginny about the shoulders and gave the camera a silly grin, sending her into a fit of giggles. It felt like he was watching a scene from someone else's life.

Ron stood and picked up another poster off the end of the bed, breaking Harry out of his reverie. "Give me hand hanging some of these up, will you?" he asked, carefully examining a creased corner.

"Sureyou want to hang all these?"

"Nah, just a couple..."

So they hung up posters the rest of the afternoon, and afterwards ate the stew sitting in on the couch, in front of the telly. Harry wasn't really certain what they were watchingsome sort of a science fiction show from Americabut Ron didn't ask more than a few cursory questions as he hunched over his plate. He did, however, have a second helping of the stew, and Harry tried not to read anything in particular into that.

-/--/--/-

The next morning Harry left Ron a note reminding him where everything was and when he'd get off work, and just before he Disapparated he gave into temptation to peek into the second bedroom. Ron was hopelessly tangled in the sheets and curled into as tiny a ball as his frame allowed, but sleeping calmly; the way he gripped the pillow was actually sort of cute.

Harry made certain to leave before _that_ line of thought could progress any further.

He settled into his desk and began working through the morning's assignmentsa stack of intercepted owl post that reach halfway up the cubical wall. The handwriting of the witch who'd sent them was so impossibly tiny and crabbed that it took almost all Harry's concentration to make out what was being said, let alone detect any codes or subterfuge spells. His nose was practically touching the parchment when he heard a loud cough behind him, and when he looked up he heard his own neck crack loudly.

With his glasses off he could scarcely see three feet in front of his face, but he had no trouble identifying his visitor by hair color alone. "'Lo, Tonks," he said. "Something come up?"

"Wotcher, Harry. Nah, just wanted to see how things were."

Harry rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on. "Everything's fine with me. You?"

"Fine, fine...you know, if you keep reading like that your glasses will be the size of fishbowls by the time you're thirty." She conjured a large magnifying glass with an ornate wooden handle. "Try this, yeah?"

"Thanks," Harry said, wondering why he hadn't thought of it first.

Tonks hung around for a few moments longer, then asked again, "So everything's good?"

"Yeah, pretty much..."

"At home?"

"Er...yeah."

"Ron doing well?"

Harry frowned at her, cottoning on. "Did Kingsley send you?" he asked.

She sighed. "Yes and no. Look, the hospital notified us that Ron was leaving, and where he was leaving forKingsley asked them to."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "And what's Kingsley think of it?"

Tonks cracked a small smile. "Officially? He's got no opinion."

"Officially."

"'Cause him telling me in the breakroom that you're the one to handle Ron if anyone can, that isn't official-like."

Harry blinked at her. "He...he said what?"

"Well, not in so many words," Tonks said casually, "you know how he can bebut that's what he _meant."_

It was such an abrupt turn-around that for a moment Harry wondered if Tonks was just trying to cheer him up, or smooth things over in the office. But then Harry remembered that this was _Kingsley_he was nothing if not practical. Aurors had training in how to handle violent or disturbed suspects, so if Ron did have another episode, Harry was best-qualified to deal with itpresuming he wasn't caught flat-footed again, as he had the night after the barbecue. "Thanks," Harry said, "I guess."

Tonks sat on the corner of the desk and lowered her voice a bit. "'Course, he also said he'd not sure if he'll ever be able to finish debriefing him..."

Harry flinched. "I get it, yeah."

"I know you've already taken your licks for that..."

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I just...look, Ron wants to continue if Kingsley does, and I suppose I...get to put up with it."

Tonks raised her eyebrows. "That's big of you, Harry. Almost _objective,_ even."

"Ha, ha, ha," Harry said dourly. "Go ahead and let Kingsley know I've learned my lesson. Consider me recused and all that."

"Harry, I'm shocked," Tonks said, one hand flying to cover her heart. "You think I only came here to rub in a scolding you already took? I thought you knew me better than that."

"You said Kingsley sent you..."

"Yeah, but not for that." She hopped off the desk and leaned her elbows on it, bracing her hand on her chin. "I came because I thought it'd cheer you up to hear what Kingsley doesn't officially think."

"Which it did," Harry said. "Sort of."

"Only sort of?"

"Well, let's say it doesn't do anything to disprove my theory that Kingsley is slowly turning into Mad-Eye."

Tonks snorted. "I'll just tell him that, yes?"

"No no noI just got back on his good side, didn't I?"

"Yes," Tonks said, "which brings me to point twoI also came because Kingsley wants to know whether you think Ron's up to another round of debriefing."

Harry blinked at her, again. She raised her eyebrows at him. "Excuse me?"

"He wants to knowthey didn't get particularly far last time, see, so Kingsley's decided to hold off on another round until he knows it won't be a repeat performance. And you're the Ron expert here, yeah?"

"What do you mean, expert?"

"Well, you seem to get along with him better than anyone else dose right now..." Tonks dropped her voice. "And if you don't mind me saying it, you get along better with him than you do anyone else."

Harry felt his cheeks go redwas he that bloody obvious? "So we're mates," he said briskly. "Since when does that mean I have to report on him to my supervisor?"

"Kingsley wants to do his job properly without harming Ron any more than he already has been," Tonks said, "and he's asking for your help. If you're willing to do it."

Harry thought it over for a moment. "Have I really got a choice?"

"Well, he is staying in your flat, so I suppose you could barricade the door..."

Harry rubbed his eyes and sighed. He supposed he should look on the bright sideat least Kingsley was showing some kind of concern for Ron's well-being. Though it put Harry in an awful sort of bind...which, he realized, may have been exactly the point. Look, tell Kingsley I'll let himor you, I guessI'll let whoever know," Harry said finally. "Ron's just moved in, I don't know if the hospital did him any good or not."

"Gotcha," Tonks said. "Trials aren't going to be for months, so it's not like there a rushhe's got all the time he needs. Wotcher, mate."

"See ya," Harry said vaguely.

Tonks popped out, then stuck her head around the edge of the cubicle. "And Harry? Good luck. To both of you."

"Thanks."

Harry had plenty of food for thought the rest of the day, quite aside from the task at hand, though he did make an appreciable dent in the stack. That evening he stopped off at a baker's and found a loaf of bread to go with Mrs. Weasley's leftover stew, and tried to tell himself that it didn't have anything to do with Ronhe just liked fresh bread, was all, it wasn't anything special. He Apparated to the roof of his building and entered the flat by the door, figuring it would startle Ron less; he wasn't entirely sure what to expect when he walked in, to be honest. Ron has seemed to be doing all right the day before, but he had still been under the influence of the hospital's sleeping potions and calming charms. How had he fared with a whole day to his own devicesnot alone, because Harry had no doubt that Mrs. Weasley had stopped by at least once alreadybut nevertheless on his own?

Harry slipped into the flat and called out. He heard a vague grunt from the direction of the television. Poking his head around the corner, he saw Ron perched on the couch, transfixed by what appeared to be a Welsh-language soap opera of some sort. Harry hadn't even been aware that he got Welsh stations, but ever since he charmed the television to pick up Sky channels he hadn't always been able to predict its behavior.

"All right, Ron?" he asked.

Ron nodded, clutching a cushion to his chest. "Yeah, fine."

"Er...what is this?"

"No idea," Ron said, "but I reckon that bloke in the red jumper's been shagging the other bloke's wifeor maybe his sisterand they're about tooh, look, there they go." A fight had erupted on the screen, accompanied by much incomprehensible shouting.

Harry took in the scene for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I'll just heat up the leftovers, then, shall I?"

"Sounds brilliant."

They ate stew and fresh bread in front of the telly, switching to another science fiction show when the soap opera went off, and afterwards they played a few brutal games of chess. Ron was almost silent the whole time, but it was a good sort of silence, in Harry's opinion: he was just listening, not hiding anything. And when he did speak up

"Is being an Auror really that boring?"

"Well, it's not all midnight raids into Dark enclaves," Harry said, nudging a pawn forward.

"What, do you go after the makers of thin-bottomed cauldrons, too?"

Harry scowled and shoved a pillow at him. "Git."

"Wanker." Ron tucked the pillow behind his back and went on to checkmate Harry in three more moves. "Really, though, what do you do all day?"

So Harry found himself telling Ron about surveillance duty, paperwork, and Calhoun's habit of stealing food out of the breakroom. Ron actually listened, looking thoughtful, but whatever was on his mind, he didn't share it.

-/--/--/-

One day followed another, and Harry was rather proud of himself for being able to keep his promise to Hermionethere was no repeat performance of the kiss, or even the threat of one. It wasn't as if he and Ron were alone together, at least not all the time: Mrs. Weasley came by every day to fuss at them, and she usually brought meals, which filled the fridge faster than they could hope to eat them. Ron never actually avoided talking to his mum, but he never said much, and Mrs. Weasley didn't seem to know how to keep the conversation going.

Another afternoon, Hermione visited with a stack of dusty books in one arm. "Thought you could use the reading material," she told Ron. "It'll give you something to do, at least."

"Got the tellyfizzin," he said with a shrug, "and the wireless."

"If you sit and watch the telly all day your brains will rot out entirely," she informed him, placing the books on the (very clean) kitchen table.

"But if I'm reading all day I'll miss _Eastenders_," Ron said, perfectly deadpan.

Hermione blinked at him, and laughed almost nervously, as if she wasn't sure it was allowed. When Ron cracked a smile at her, she glanced at Harry, and he shrugged, trying not to say _I told you so!_

Before Hermione slipped out the door that day, she grabbed Harry's elbow and took him aside. "He looks well," she said warmly. "Really well."

Harry shrugged and looked at his shoes. "Yeah, well. Wish I could claim the credit."

"What about you?" she asked. "Are you...holding up?"

He glared at her. "Yes. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

__

"Yes."

Because Harry was fine. Really. He and Ron were just like mates, mostly, and things were almost like Harry used to imagine they'd be after the war. They talked and watched television, they played chess and just sort of hung out. And if Harry occasionally felt a surge of more-than-brotherly affection; if he periodically had to step out of the room to maintain his self-control; if he sometimes jumped almost as badly as Ron did when they bumped into one another on accidentit didn't matter. Harry's confused mess of feelings didn't really matter, _couldn't_ matter, because they were mates before anything else, and moreover, he had promised to help Ron in whatever ways he needed. Maybe he'd say something when Ron was better, or at least when he'd started improvingbut for now, he had more important things to worry about than a mass of confused feelings he could barely articulate.

Harry was aware, for instance, that Ron still wasn't sleeping well. He had nightmares almost every night after the firstthe walls inside the flat weren't that thick, and Harry got used to listening for the telltale noises. Most of the time they weren't the shouting and thrashing kind, just whimpers and vague cries into the darkness. Harry got up and checked every time anyway, just in case. The nights when Ron woke up, he usually sat up and took three quick, deep breaths before looking around in the darkness and shakily calling out. "Harry?"

"Right here, mate." Harry always was.

"Sorry."

"'Salright."

Sometimes Ron lay back down after that, and then Harry would go back to his room. Other times Ron would stumble to the bathroom, and Harry would sit on the couch, waiting for him. Maybe they'd play a bit of chess then, or watch the strange old movies that played on sky TV in the small hours, just until Ron had settled himself again and was ready to go back to sleep. The nights when Ron didn't even wake up, Harry always watched him a moment to make sure he really was asleep, and then went straight back to his room, and he never thought of anything inappropriate. Ever. Really.

They were just mates, for now.

And if Ron sometimes seemed to spend an awful lot of time staring at Harry with that smooth blank expression, or if he seemed a little too engrossed by Harry's rambling work stories, or ifoncegroggy and confused after a nightmare in the small hoursif Ron may have grabbed Harry's wrist a bit too tightly and held it a bit too longwell. He was adjusting to a new way of living. He had a lot of things on his mind. It probably didn't mean anything. And Harry would be a fool to think it did.


	11. Chapter 11

Despite his jokes, Ron read through all of Hermione's books by the end of the week, though he wouldn't let Harry look at any of them. Also, except for a couple of science fiction shows that he seemed to find funny and the occasional Welsh soap opera, he didn't pay much attention to the television, either. Harry wasn't sure how to explain it, but he thought he could sense a certain restlessness in his frienda certain boredom, maybe.

Hermione dropped by on Saturday morning with more books and a potted fern. "Neville thought you might like it," she said. "It might brighten things up a bit."

Ron stared at the fern for a moment, then took it into his room and placed it on the windowsill. "Tell Neville thanks," he said.

"Of course, he'll be glad you liked it."

"I mean it. Thank him for me."

Ron and Hermione looked at each other for a moment, and Harry wished he had an excuse to leave the room. Hermione smiled weakly, sort of sadly, and Ron bit his lip and shrugged. Then the moment broke, and Hermione patted Ron lightly on the arm before she took her leave, barely remembering to call good-bye to Harry over her shoulder. Ron stared after her, with a bit of a smile himself, not taking his eyes off of her until she was out of the door.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "All right, mate?" he said, trying to make it sound casual.

Ron nodded. "Yeah," he said, still looking at the door. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Mrs. Weasley sent over a large lunch that day, as if she didn't even trust them to make sandwiches on their ownHarry wondered if she secretly suspected he'd been putting the bread between the meat and the cheese all these years. He floated this idea to Ron, who sprayed crumbs across the coffee table laughing, and then looked at Harry with such warmth in his eyes that Harry had to step into the kitchen for a moment to reign in his breathing.

When he came back into the living room, Ron's good humor had retreated a bit, and his expression had grown suddenly serious. "Harry?" he said, almost tentatively.

"Yeah, mate?"

Ron was looking past him, at the tiny kitchen window. He had a funny expression on his face, not the fiercely blank one that Harry was coming to think of as his default. Ron took a deep breath, then said, hesitantly, "Let's go for a walk?"

Harry almost choked on his sandwich, but recovered. "A walk?"

"A walk," Ron said, stronger this time. "Just...around."

"Erm...okay."

"If you want to."

"I'll go if you want to."

It was a miserably London sort of day, cool and cloudy and damp, and Harry lent Ron a jacket to ward off the persistent breeze. They didn't walk long, and stayed within a block or two of Harry's building the whole time, and Ron walked as close to Harry as he could get without either of them tripping. But he also looked around at everything they passed as if he had never seen a city street before. He held his breath as they squeezed past a crowd and stopped for several minutes to watch the traffic signals change, and stared from a distance at a shop with automatic sliding doors. Harry watched him carefully and tried to keep any stupid grins off his own face, tried to pretend they were just a couple of mates taking a walk, no matter how much it warmed him to watch Ron turn his face into the freshening breeze.

They circled back to the flat long before the rain began, but as Harry struggled with the finicky lock on the front door it started to drizzle, and then to shower in earnest. Harry watched from the corner of his eye as Ron turned to watch the pavement turn dark and wet, and then tentatively stuck out an arm to let rain puddle in the palm of his hand.

-/--/--/-

 

Hermione invited him to lunch on Tuesday, and he was feeling so generous that he even consented to see her at the Leaky Cauldron, provided that she secure them a private eating room. She was so enthusiastic about it that he probably should've been suspicious, but Ron had taken to going walking with him every afternoon when he got home from work, making short circuits of Harry's neighborhood. He didn't think anything could put a pall on _that._

That theory was tested, however, when he arrived at the pub and found that Hermione hadn't come alone. "Er...hey, Ginny," Harry said, stopping short as Tom showed him into the room.

Both women smiled at him: Ginny looked almost as discomfited as Harry felt, and Hermione had the bright-eyed, cheerful look of someone who wasn't entirely certain whether this was going to work. "Hello, Harry!" Hermione said warmly. "Erlook who I found?"

"Hello, Harry," Ginny said, with a sideways glare. "Hermione didn't _mention_ you were who she was meeting."

Hermione buried her face in the menu. "I suppose I didn't quite get around to it..."

Harry took a deep breath and sat down across the table from Ginny. Relationship or not, Ron or no Ron, Ginny was a part of his life and his past and he was going to at least stay on speaking terms with her. Also, he wanted lunch. She fiddled with her drink quite a bit, but didn't hesitate to look him in the eye, which he felt at least was a positive sign.

"How's Ron doing?" Hermione asked. "Does he like the books I brought him?"

"Yeah, he's been plowing through themnever knew he could read that fast."

"That's good."

"What sorts of books are they?" Ginny asked.

She had addressed the question to Harry, but he looked to Hermione, whose face pinked up a bit. "Magic, mostly," she said. "I picked a few titles from the NEWTs reading list. I hoped it would encourage him a bit, at least to buy a new wand."

Harry bit down on the urge to scold her for pressuring him; Ron obviously wasn't _feeling_ pressured, at the rate he was devouring those books. Did he dare hope that this represented progress? "We'll see," he said finally. "Don't think he's thought that far ahead yet."

Hermione nodded. "It was just a thought. And, er, how are you holding up?"

"Fine," he said, feeling his neck warm. The last place he wanted to talk about that was in front of Ginny.

"No...problems?"

"No," he said firmly.

"That's good..."

Ginny frowned at them, but was prevented from saying anything by the arrival of Tom with their food. When the old man had gone again, Harry jumped in with a change of topic. "How about you? Are you, er, okay?"

She smiled and she poked at her salad. "Yes. Yes, I honestly think I am."

"And Neville?"

"He's...all right."

"All right," Ginny said with a frown, "what's the secret code?"

"Nothing," Harry said quickly. "Don't worry about it."

She didn't look convinced, but allowed Hermione to change the topic again, and soon they were embroiled in a cheerful session of comparing and complaining about their jobs. Harry would've been content to let the conversation stay there for the rest of the meal, but when Ginny excused herself to the loo, Hermione dug into him again. "Seriously, Harry, have you given any more thought to what we talked about?"

"Yes," he said, only half meaning it. "And I'd really rather not talk about it here."

She frowned at him. "Have you decided anything?" she asked. "Have you even talked about it with him?"

"Of course not!" Harry blurted.

She threw her head back. "Men!"

"Hermione," he said, "look. I like Ron. I like being around Ron. That's all I'm sure of. Anything else has to wait until he's better."

"That's it?" she asked. "You kissed him because you like being around him?"

Harry swallowed. _I like being around him. I like the way he laughs. I like the way he mouths the words when he reads. I like the remarks he makes when we're watching television. I like his hair. I like the look in his eyes when he's thinking hard. I like the way he gloats about chess. I like the way he sleeps and I wish I could stop the nightmares. I wish I could stop him jumping at the littlest things. I wish I could stop him twitching all over when somebody touches him. I wish I could touch him..._

"More or less," he said, and quickly drained his glass.

Hermione insisted, in the end, on handling the payment by herself. "Just wait up here," she said as she took their Galleons, "I'll get the change and be right back up."

"We're capable of making simple transactions by ourselves, you know," Ginny said bemusedly.

"Well, there's no point in all of us going down at once..."

"Except it'd be faster," Harry pointed out.

She smiled widely. "Trust me, I'll be back in a moment! Don't leave on me!" She darted out, shutting the door behind her; Harry half-expected her to lock it behind her.

This left him and Ginny along together. Again. Bollocks.

"You know why she did this," Ginny said reluctantly, after a beat of silence.

"I have a theory," Harry said dryly.

Ginny sighed and crossed her arms. "Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you at the party," she said. "All I want is a straight answer to a simple question."

"I don't think it's all that simple," Harry told her.

"I think it is!" she said. "Harry, I did stupid things, and there was a war, and we broke up. But the war is over and I've apologized and I want to know if Iif _we_still have a shot. Yes or no?"

"Ginny, I'm not the boy who kissed you in the middle of the common room, all right?" Harry said. "And you're not the girl he kissed. Not anymore. What happens if it doesn't work out?"

"What happens if it does?" She reached out and grabbed his hand. "What if we're not as different as you think? Is that what you're afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," he said, trying to pull his hand back, but she wouldn't let go.

"Then why do you keep making excuses?" she said.

"I'm not making excusesI'm telling you, it can't ever be the same again"

"I still love you, you idiot!" she practically shouted. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"And I"

The words caught in Harry's throat, and he stared at her for a moment, unable to speak. Her hair was loose today, falling over her shoulders in shining copper waves, and her face was very pink from shouting: she glowed in the room, and her eyes were sparkling with life, with passion...

And Harry was uncomfortable, embarrassed, annoyed.

And nothing more.

"I'm sorry," he told her.

She shut her eyes and let go of his hand; she seemed to contract a little, actually, as she exhaled. "I should've known it," she said softly.

"I'm really sorry."

"Harry, please don't." She turned away from him and looked into the roaring fire. "I was just holding out hope anyway. I shouldn't have...well."

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, not trusting himself to speak again. They stood in silence until Hermione came back with their change, nearly fifteen minutes after she'd gone downstairs. She looked at them both, standing on opposite sides of the room, and her eyes went very wide. "Is everything all right?" she asked nervously.

Harry shrugged. Ginny sniffled a bit and accepted a handful of Knuts. "It will be," she said. "Don't worry about it."

"I really am sorry," Harry blurted again.

Ginny glanced at him once before she slipped out the door. "Me, too."

After a moment of bewildered silence, Hermione blinked at Harry. He shook his head. "Don't ask."

"Are you?"

"Just don't ask, all right?"

He plowed sluggishly through the rest of the afternoon's work, half-distracted by the feeling that he'd lost something important. What, though? A symbol of happier days? A link to the future he always thought he was meant to have? He could practically hear Hermione clucking her tongue at him. _I'm examining my motives, Hermione,_ he though morosely, _aren't you proud of me?_ Perhaps this was what she always meant when she harassed him about "moving on," this letting go...he'd just given up what he once wanted more than anything in the world. He wasn't entirely sure what he was meant to do next.

He tried to rally himself before he Apparated home, because he really didn't want to discuss this with Ron. But when he popped into the kitchen, the first thing he noticed was the Chinese food: large cartons of it poking out of plastic bags on the table. He turned around and saw Ron sitting on the couch with a carton of what looked like sweet-and-sour pork andof all thingsa pair of chopsticks; he had great splotches of sauce down his front, attesting to his success rate. "Hey, Harry," he said a bit breathlessly.

"Hey," Harry said. "Where did all this come from?"

Ron put down his food and stood up, wiping sticky hands on his trousers. "Erm. I bought it."

"From where?"

"Minn's? The place on the corner?"

Harry knew exactly where Minn's was; they had passed it walking every afternoon, and Ron always had to hold his breath as they threaded through the lines. "Ron," he said, "Minn's doesn't deliver."

Ron's face pinked. "I know. I picked it up."

Harry blinked at him. "You...all by yourself?"

He averted his eyes and mumbled, "Reckoned it'd be good for a change, or something..."

Ron was shifting his weight on the balls of his feet, almost as if he expected Harry to scold himas if he expected to have to run. Harry looked at the bags, and then at Ron, with food down his shirt and a glob of sauce stuck in his beard, eyes shaded by his shaggy fringe. Something warm lit up in the pit of his stomach. "Thanks," he said, and grabbed a carton of beef and broccoli. "I really appreciate it."

Ron's nervous grin was the best thing he'd seen all day.

-/--/--/-

 

They should've known it couldn't last forever.

Friday evening was the first Quidditch match of the season, and they stayed up altogether too late listening to the wireless broadcast. Ron had been transfixed, leaping half out of his chair at every goal and holding his breath at every sighting of the Snitch. When the match finally ended, Ron volunteered to do all the washing-up from dinner, to which Harry heartily agreed. Ron's face had been very flushed, and there'd been a slight tremor in his hands, but he'd been smilinga genuine smile, not forced or fake. Harry had assumed he'd just gotten over-excited by his first Quidditch match in three years, and that he'd have plenty of time to calm down before he went to bed.

Harry fell asleep with the image of Ron' s glowing face fixed in his mind. He woke up with a hoarse scream ringing in his ears. For a foggy second he didn't know where it had come from; then he heard a thump from the other bedroom, and a rising moan that ended in a shout. He scrambled out of bed, scarcely remembering to grab his glasses, and his wandjust in case, he told himself, just in case.

He found Ron thrashing about on the floor, growling and mumbling incoherently. Harry grabbed the sheet that was entangling Ron's limbs and yanked it free, earning a kick in the side of the head for his troubles. Ron flung himself backwards and awayhis eyes opened wide, and he blinked once, twice, three times. Then he let out a shuddering sigh, and seemed to shrink in on himself, shivering as he slumped against the chest of drawers with his legs drawn up.

"Ron?" Harry asked, crouching down. "Talk to me."

Ron shook his head, took several deep breaths, then said distinctly, "Shit."

Harry's instinct was to ask _are you all right?_ though it was obvious that he wasn't. "Are you hurt?" he asked instead, and lit his wand to get a good look at his friend. It was hard to tell the way he was curled up, but Harry would bet he'd at least have a collection of bruises in the morning from the way he'd been flailing. There were scratches on his neck again, too, and Harry noticed a sluggishly bleeding cut on his forehead, probably from the fall.

But Ron shook his head again and pulled his knees up tighter to his chest. When Harry crawled forward a bit, Ron spat, "I'm _fine."_

"The hell you are," Harry said. "Let me see your head."

Ron blinked a bit, then swiped a hand across his forehead. When he saw the blood on his fingers, he stared at it for a few moments, and then vomited.

Harry sighed, and grabbed Ron's arm, hating the automatic twitch under the sweat-soaked sleeve. "Come on," he said. "Get up."

"Let go of me," Ron said without much feeling.

"You're not sitting here all night."

Ron stumbled to his feet, and Harry nudged him in the direction of the bathroom before vanishing the puddle of sick on the floor. The sheets of the bed were as sweaty as Ron's pajamas, so he stripped them off and stuffed them in the hamper. Ron could finish the night on the couch...assuming he could even get back to sleep. Harry also grabbed a pair of dry pajamas and tracked Ron down in the bathroom, where he was brushing his teeth in a way that could only be described as "violently." He'd opened the medicine cabinet, too, so that the mirror was angled uselessly towards the wall.

"Here," Harry said, setting the pajamas on the toilet. "I'll take care of that cut when you're done."

Ron grunted something and kept staring straight ahead. Harry didn't know what else to say, so he retreated to the couch and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up completely.

A few minutes later, Ron threw himself down on the couch next to Harry and folded his arms over his chest. The cut appeared to have stopped bleeding already; it was really quite small, just leaky, as head injuries so often were. "Ready?" Harry asked, lifting his wand.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut and snapped, "Just do it."

Ron had sat on Harry's left, and the cut was over his left eye, so Harry had to practically sprawl across his lap to reach it. Ron twitched and jumped the entire time, so much so that Harry had to steady his head with his free hand to cast the charm. "Hold still," Harry said, trying to cap his frustration.

"Just _do_ it," Ron growled again.

"I'm trying" Harry cast the charm and wiped away the blood with his thumb. "There." Ron almost immediately squirmed away to the far side of the couch.

Harry sat back, jaw clenched. This wasn't the easy post-nightmare routine he'd been getting used to. He set his wand aside and washed the little spot of blood off his hands in the kitchen sink, and under the rush of running water he almost missed Ron's hoarse whisper:

"I hate it."

"Eh?" Harry turned the sink off and turned around quickly.

Ron's face twisted into a scowl. "I _hate_ it!" he suddenly shouted, pulling his knees to his chest again. "I'm bloody sick of it, all of it."

"All of what?" Harry asked, sitting down at Ron's side again.

"Everything. Myself." Ron drew a shaky breath and raked his hand through his hair. "I'm sick of being so bloody nervous all the time, and scared of everything, and I'm sick of the bloody nightmares and I'm sick of being crazy and I'm sick and bloody tired of...of e_verything!"_

"Ron, calm down," Harry said. "It's..." _not okay, but..._ "You've been doing really well this week, yeah?"

He snorted. "Yeah, whoohoo, I walked to the bloody Chinese take-away, what a big accomplishment."

"Well..." Harry threw up his hands. "I don't know what you want me to say, then. I think you're doing better."

"Compared to what, a flobberworm?"

"Compared to how you were at the Burrow."

Ron sighed, and pressed his face into the heel of his hands. "I just want to...I want the way things were supposed to be," he said. "I want to walk around outside, and eat a proper meal, and see my family, and _sleep..._bloody hell, I want to go _home_..."

"You will"

_"When?"_ Ron looked up again. "When, Harry? You're the one with all the answerswhen do I get to go home and stay there? How long do I have to be crazy before it starts getting better?"

"You _are_ getting better!" Harry snapped back, then took a deep breath and looked into Ron's eyes. "Ron, look, I can understand you being frustrated, butyou're doing better than you think. I _know_ you are."

"How?" Ron asked. His body was starting to relax and uncurl, but he was watching Harry now with an unnerving intensity, and Harry couldn't really read his face. "How do you know?"

Harry licked his lips, feeling his heart pound, but he scooted closer to Ron on the couch. "You laugh," he said, "And you eat, without hunching over the plate like I'm going to steal it from you. You talk to me. You go outside. You walk to the bloody Chinese take-away...that's how I know you're getting better, because you're being normal..."

"I don't even know what normal is anymore," Ron whispered.

"Yeah, you do," Harry said. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Ron took a deep breath and suddenly leaned in close, stretched out to close the gap between them. Harry instinctively leaned back, thinking Ron was going to lash out at him for some reason. But then one of Ron's hands found Harry's shoulder, and then Ron's mouth found Harry's lips, and then

For some reason the first thought that crossed Harry's mind was _his beard feels really strange,_ and only then did he register that he was kissing him, that this was real. Ron's hand on Harry's shoulder was shaking a little and his ragged breath ghosted over Harry's face, but his lips were steady and firm. A thousand questions flitted through Harry's head before they chased out by a single, simpler thought: _Close your damn eyes and enjoy it._

Harry closed his eyes, but a moment later, Ron pulled away, all the expression on his face shutting down. "I'm sorry," he blurted, and started to untangle his legs and climb off the couch. "I shouldn't've"

"Ron, wait." Harry grabbed his arm and held him in place. "Erm. Don't be sorry."

Ron blinked at him. "It's okay?"

"It's..." Harry set his glasses on properly again and swallowed. "Where did that come from?"

Ron sighed and looked away. "I just...you've been...I really would've lost it at home without you around, mate. I mean it. Everything...it's all different, and it's like I wandered into someone else's life by accident and I don't know what he's meant to be doing or who he's meant to be...but you just treat me like me. And I like that. And when youafter the reporterit made me jumpy, just, y'know, the touching. But it was also...nice. Which makes sense, because kissing is supposed to beand I reckon I haven't that good...that _normal..._in a long time."

He smiled weakly, hopefully; Harry smiled back, but he was having a bit of trouble catching himself up to the conversation. "So you weren'tI mean, I was afraid I'd upset you or something."

"Upset? No...I just thought you and Ginny were still..."

"No," Harry sighed. "Not anymore."

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Harry watched Ron's face carefully, because he couldn't quite believe yet that this was all really happening. Ron looked at his lap, tapping his fingers nervously against his knee Harry would never call himself an expert at any kind of emotional algebra, but it seemed a bit obvious that if Ron fancied him, and he fancied Ron, then the next part was obvious...wasn't it?

"I know we can'tI can'tit wouldn't ever work," Ron blurted, exactly on cue. "I'm just, erm, I'm too crazy. I know that. It's too normal for me, you know? I don't even know how to be that anymore."

"You think this would be normal?" Harry asked. "You and me?"

Ron smiled weakly. "Well, look at what I've got to compare it to..."

Harry chuckled, and squeezed Ron's arm. Then he realized what he'd just done. "Ronyou didn't jump."

"Eh?"

Harry squeezed Ron's arm again, a little tighter, feeling the layer of flesh that had built up under the skin in the past few weeks. Ron looked down and blinked at Harry's hand as though it were an alien life-form. "I didn't notice," he said in awe.

"I told you, you're getting better," Harry said, and then took a deep breath. "And I...I don't want to push you into anything, mate. It's not that I think you're too crazyI know you're notbut you've got more than enough to worry about just taking care of yourself..."

"Harry," Ron said, as he covered Harry's hand with his own, "I don't _want_ to worry about myself. That's sort of the point."

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other, and then Harry impulsively leaned in and kissed Ron again. He sensed the automatic recoil, the tension in Ron's shoulders, but Ron kissed him back readily and squeezed his hand with crooked fingers. And when Harry pulled back, Ron's face was smooth and calm andhappy.

A warm feeling filled his chest, and he licked his lips, tasting mostly toothpaste. "I think we can do this," he said, "justslowly."

"Slow," Ron repeated. "Right."

"And," Harry said, "you have to tell me if it's too much."

Ron nodded. "Just keep telling me I'm not as mad as I think I am, okay?"

Harry didn't have any illusionsit couldn't be nearly this easy, not after all Ron had endured. But it was a start, at least, and God knew they both could use one. "So," Harry said, "you want to, um, practice this normal thing again?"

Ron blinked at him and snickered. "That's what you call a come-on line, Potter?"

"Git."

"Wanker."

Ron kissed him again, a little less nervously, and Harry wondered if this meant he had officially moved on.


End file.
